


Captivated by Your Resonating Light

by Obsidian Rose (StillRose)



Series: You Still Have All Of Me [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Hallucinating Dean Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mentions of Past Torture, Past Rape/Non-con, Rape Aftermath, mentions of past rape
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-04
Updated: 2019-03-31
Packaged: 2019-07-06 19:22:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 9
Words: 36,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15892485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StillRose/pseuds/Obsidian%20Rose
Summary: Months have passed since demon Dean had brutalized and tortured Sam and Castiel. In that time, the Winchesters had found a way to remove the Mark of Cain but not without a cost. Castiel was dead, Chuck was dying, and the Darkness was on the verge of not only undoing all of creation but ‘joining’ with Dean through some mumbo-jumbo bond she claimed to have with him. Now was as a good a time as any for a one-way ride to wide to oblivion Hail Mary play, and Dean Winchester was all too happy to carry the ball.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, first chapter. Can we all say, "Let's do the time jump again!" ;)
> 
>  
> 
> **Kudos and comments give me sweet dreams.**
> 
>  
> 
> Unbetaed

Dean jerked awake, Cas’s name dangerously close to escaping his lips He hadn’t the right to speak the angel’s name, not even in his sleep. He sat up, pinching his fingers across his eyes to clear try and clear them. He looked around the table at the center of the bunker. The loser’s club was still present, Chuck, Sammy, Crowley, and Rowena. He blinked. There was someone else. _Oh yeah, Billie. Ain’t a party till a reaper shows up._

Why couldn’t they hold their Team Fucked Up the Ass meeting somewhere else? The only place in the bunker Dean could sleep anymore was in the main room, passed out over the center table. It wasn’t like his room, the bathroom, or even the fucking garage. Dean had only tortured Cas in this room, not raped him.

Biting back a growl, he reached for the bottle of whiskey he was always sure to have stocked and at the table. “Son of a bitch.” The bottle was empty.

“Dean?” Sam called out, his voice full of concern. When wasn’t it?

“I’m good, Sammy.” Dean stood up scooting his chair back. He grabbed the empty bottle and headed for the kitchen.

“Where you going?” Sam asked.

 _Oblivion if that bitch, Billie, keeps her word._ Dean closed his eyes and silently counted to two before twisting around to look at his brother. He hated looking at Sammy. It hurt. There was always love and forgiveness shining in Sam’s eyes, while in Dean’s mind were the memories of what he’d done to his brother.

 _I starved him. I tortured, forced him to carve his initials on Cas. I got him hooked on demon blood again, my blood._ Dean’s stomach twisted. _I fucking kissed him!_

“Going for a refill.” Dean held up his empty bottle and shook it at his brother.

“Fine idea, squirrel, want some company?” Crowley’s asked.

“You wanna demon blade shoved up your ass?” Dean was way too sober to put up with the King of Hell.

“Right, still in mourning I see.” Crowley’s voice was deceptively soft and cool but the slight curl of his smile knew he launched a well-aimed barb.

Dean dropped the bottle and charged toward the demon.

“Adiuro vos!” Rowena commanded.

Snarling, Dean slammed to a halt, some unseen force keeping him from moving.

“Dean!” Sam yelled stepping in between his brother and the demon. “This isn’t helping.”

“Well, I’m sure ganking him wouldn’t hurt!” Dean spit the words out like throwing knives. “Exactly why do we need him? What part of the plan does he play?”

“He doesn’t, but killing him is a waste of your time and energy,” Billie said, her voice as calm and cool as one would expect from a reaper.

Dean locked his green eyes on the statuesque black woman. Stunningly beautiful, and boldly confident, she had a presence that commanded attention even if she hadn’t been a harbinger of death. _Had she been the one? Had she been there when Amara killed…_ He shook his head. _Don’t ask questions you don’t want answers to._

Billie arched an eyebrow, almost as if she could hear his unasked questions and dared him to inquire.

 _No._ Dean flashed a charmingly cold smile at her. _Because if you were, I’d reap you like I did Death himself._

“Hey,” Sam said softly as he laid a hand on Dean’s shoulder. “I...I miss him too, but this isn’t what he’d want.”

“And how exactly would we know that, Sammy?” Dean said, turning to focus his attention back on his brother. “For the last few months, he’s been nothing but Lucifer’s gimp suit. We don’t even know why he agreed to do that!”

“Sure we do,” Sam said, squeezing Dean’s shoulder. “He thought he was doing the right thing. He believed Lucifer could stop Amara.”

 _Or maybe he believed it was a way to be finally free of me._ Dean glanced back at Crowley who was watching him behind a facade of cool indifference. They’d tried a “rescue” attempt to free Cas. Crowley had temporarily possessed him while Lucifer was distracted, only Cas hadn’t wanted to be free. He’d been content to be mindlessly locked away in Lucifer’s mind. _There he couldn’t be haunted by the memories of what I’d done to him._

Whatever Cas had thought and whatever Lucifer had promised was moot. In Team Fucked Up The Ass’s latest plan they had all attacked God’s sister, Amara, otherwise known as The Darkness.  Lucifer had led the angels, Crowley the demons, and Rowena the witches.  Sam and Dean brought special guest star God, a.k.a. Chuck.

Dean glanced and the hunched figure at the corner of the table. Chuck, the Almighty, was currently a small bearded man with curly hair huddled in a blanket. _And we thought we were going to save the world._ All they had done was piss Amara off.

They’d charged in, attacked, and in the end, she’d smote Lucifer and mortally crippled Chuck. Now the whole world was dying, and all of creation was on the verge of being undone.

Yet, all Dean could see was Castiel’s lifeless body on the floor of the power plant. He’d never been able to tell the angel how sorry he was. _As if sorry could mean a damn thing given what I did._ He’d also never been able to tell Cas how he’d felt, how much...

“Rowena,” Dean barked. “I need a drink. Let me go.”

The petite red-haired witch who had more curves than a Kentucky backroad lifted a brow before giving a curt nod. “Et nunc absolvo vos!”

Dean fell forward a bit as the strange force which had been holding him mostly immobile dissipated. He shot the witch a dirty look but held his tongue.

“Now, it doesn’t matter if our pipe bomb is sober or not when we deliver it, but if we are going ta make it in the first place I need to concentrate.” Rowena fixed her gaze on Dean and made a shooing motion with her hand. “So, off with ya. Just be sure yer sober enough ta walk when it’s time to go.”

Without another word, Dean turned and left. He hated to give the Scottish witch credit for anything, but she was right. He, nor his sobriety, were really needed for anything other than to be a delivery system. He was going to be the special surprise at the bottom of Amara’s Cracker Jack box.

 _Fitting._ Dean entered the kitchen and walked toward the massive refrigerator. Castiel and he had always had a bond. _Look what it got him. If she thinks we’re connected, well…._

Dean opened the door and searched inside. He smiled and reached for the six-pack chilling in the back.  Shutting the door and turning around, his smile faded. He wasn’t alone.

“Dean,” Chuck stood there in his white t-shirt and red hoodie. “Is this really how you want to spend your last-”

“You have some nerve, you know that?” Dean interrupted setting the six-pack down on the counter and plucking out a bottle. He really wasn’t in the mood for a “life talk” from the Almighty. “Where do you get off coming in here….to what? Give me some advice? As far as I’m concerned, you’re just one more absentee father.”

“I am still the Lord God,” Chuck said pulling back his shoulders, his tone hardening with command.

“Yeah, well bang up job on that,” Dean said popping the cap off his beer before taking a swig.

“I never took you for the self-pitying type, Dean,” Chuck replied.

Dean lowered his beer. “You think this is self-pity? Wow, you really are out of touch, _Chuck_ _._.”

“Look, I know you are grieving, but Sam -”

“See right there!” Dean jabbed a finger toward the other man. “That’s the problem, _Chuck,_ you know and you don’t do a damn thing about it. You just sit back and let others do all the suffering and dying to fix the messes while you run off and do what? Play skeet ball? Write books? Go to conventions?”

Chuck sighed and shook his head. “It’s not that simple, Dean.”

“Yeah, I’m sure it’s too cosmically complex for one of your little toys to understand.”

“You’re not a toy.” Chuck smiled sadly.

“Oh yeah, that’s right, I’m just a character in one of your stories. Well, guess what? I’m done. Write me out of the plot.”

Chuck held up his hands. “You are more than that, you’re a part of the tapestry of creation, Dean. An important part.”

“The tapestry of…” Dean fought back the urge to throw his beer at the other man. God may be dying, but he still might have enough juice to smite someone and while Dean was seeking out oblivion, he did still have one more mission to carry out.  “Well, look around, Chuck because the best part of creation died a few hours ago and that’s on you.”

“Me?’ Chuck frowned.

“You’re omniscient, cosmically aware. At any point you’ve could have saved Cas. You could have yanked him out of Lucifer when we first rescued that sarcastic shit from your sister. Hell, you could have stepped into the Cage and kept him from saying ‘yes’ in the first place!” Dean slammed his beer on the counter sending a spray jutting out the neck and over his hand.

Chuck shuffled to the sink and grabbed a towel. He looked at it briefly, before holding it out toward Dean. “I told you, creation is like a tapestry. It’s woven together by threads of chance and choice. Tell me, Dean, what would have happened if I had cut one of those threads?”

“Cas would still be alive!” Dean snatched the towel from Chuck’s grasp.

“Maybe or maybe Lucifer would have killed him later instead of Amara.”

Dean glowered at the other man. “What does that mean?”

“Look at the choices you made to get here, Dean,” Chuck said quietly. “Amara is free because you chose to reap Death instead of Sam to get rid of Mark of Cain. You took the Mark to kill Abbadon. You needed to kill Abbadon to stop her from taking over Hell after-”

“You don’t need to give me a recap of my life!” Dean threw the towel toward the sink. “I lived it.”

“My point it is, Dean, what would you have done differently?” Chuck asked.

 _Everything._ Dean hissed. The question pierced him like the First Blade, the knife Abbadon had used to kill him turning him into a demon. “You mean what wouldn’t I?”

“And how many lives would have been lost? Would the world be under Michael’s rule? Or perhaps the Leviathans? Which previous Apocalypse would you choose to have let happen instead?”

“Which would you?” Dean slammed his fists on the counter.

“I chose you, Dean. I chose you and Sam to decide. I chose to let humanity choose.”

“Yeah? And what about, Cas? What did those choices get him?”

“Castiel chose to rebel,” Chuck said simply without condemnation.

“And he died because of it.”

“He also lived. He learned what it was like to be human. He lov-”

Dean moved without thinking, charging Chuck and backing up into the wall. “Don’t you say it. Don’t you fucking say it.”

He wasn’t sure if Chuck was weak enough he could actually kill him, but if Chuck said one more word, Dean would try. It wouldn’t be the first time he had offed a god.

“Dean!” Sam’s voice was fraught with fear and urgency.

“What?” Dean snapped turning to look at his brother.

Sam’s face was twisted into worry as he glanced from his brother to Chuck. When his gaze settled back on Dean, his eyes were filled with not only concern but a terrible weight. Dean recognized the pain, it was resigned loss. “It’s time. Rowena’s finished the spell. The soul bomb is ready.”

Dean took a deep breath and stepped back from Chuck. This was it. Finally, he was going to die, and there was no coming back. There was going to be no heaven either. Billie had promised that, but it was okay. Dean didn’t want heaven, not without Cas.

He stepped over to Sam. Laying a hand on his shoulder, Dean squeezed. It wasn’t fair to Sam. Dean was leaving him alone. Abandoning him to the world. _Stranding him in this place full of memories._

Still, even if someone else could get close enough to Amara to deliver the bomb, Dean would volunteer for the job. He was ready. He started to move forward, to step away from Sam.

Chuck called out softly. “I restored him twice. He was a wholly unique thread in the tapestry.”

Dean left the kitchen without a word.

***

He’d failed, but he’d saved the world. Dean stood in front of Amara reunited with a restored Chuck, alive and disarmed. He still wasn’t sure what had happened.

He’d said his goodbyes, made his peace with dying. He’d walked into the garden prepared to blow up The Darkness. Yet, she’d known it was a setup the moment he’d stepped toward her.

That had let only one option; talking. Dean, the GED screw-up who repressed and denied his emotions so much that his closets had closets talked to the sister of the Creator of all about the only thing he knew more about than cars; family.

Sure, Dean had hurt and failed them, but he’d never once misunderstood the importance of them. Family had been at the heart of the choices he’d made, for good or bad.

So there he stood, watching light return to the world, power return to Chuck, and Amara turn from the Big Bad to the Newly Redeemed. _Oblivion would have to wait._

“I think we're just gonna go away for a while and…” Chuck started to say, a bit sheepishly for the Almighty.

“Hey, yeah. Family meeting, I get it,” Dean said, raising his hands and cutting him off. Sure, Chuck was about to pull another absent father routine, but glancing at the restored sun shining brightly overhead, perhaps that was for the best.

Chuck smiled and stepped away from his sister toward Dean. He put a hand to Dean’s chest. “But first…”

Briefly, Dean remembered the last conversation he’d had with Chuck. _Perhaps, I haven’t missed my chance at oblivion._ Light suddenly flowed out Dean, and a tight compressed pain nearly doubled him over.

Both the light and sensation dissipated as quickly as they’d begun. The bomb, it was gone. Dean stared at Chuck with an awe and respect he’d not shone previously.

“Better?” Chuck smiled.

Dean nodded. “What about us?” _What about creation? Your world? The tapestry?_ After everything that had happened, was Chuck really abandoning them again? “What about Earth?”

Chuck fixed his gaze on Dean’s, understanding blazing in them. “Earth will be fine. It’s got you...and Sam.”

It was an echo, a riff, on what he’d said in the kitchen earlier. Dean’s response earlier had been anger. Now it was confusion edged with disappointment. He was tired. He didn’t want this anymore. Not without…

“Dean,” Amara called out as Chuck moved back to her side. “You gave me something I needed most. I want to do the same for you.”

He stared back at her, completely lost and more than a little afraid. What could The Darkness do for him? Did he want it? Couldn’t his story just be done?

Chuck nodded and winked at him as suddenly he and Amara began to fade and blend together becoming ephemeral tendrils of light and dark that twisted together into a spiral before shooting up into the cosmos.

It was a blinding display, forcing Dean to turn away. When it was gone, he blinked. It was dark, not because the sun was gone, but because it had gone down. It was night, late night he guessed.

He looked around. He was no longer in the garden. In fact, there wasn’t much vegetation around at all. However, there were large rectangular shapes squatting motionless nearby. They were haphazardly arranged and yet there was something oddly familiar about them and the pattern.

Frowning, Dean moved cautiously towards one of the shapes to get a better look. It was a car, an old car. _A Chevelle? A 1971 Chevrolet Chevelle?_ Swirling around slowly took studied the area again. He was surrounded by cars. _Junkers._

Something twisted in his gut. _No!_ _It can’t be._ It had been years, but once recognition had begun to set in, the details fell into place. He knew where he was, but it was impossible.

Spinning around, he took off at a run weaving his way around the old cars with unwavering certainty until he skitted to a halt in front of an old house in bad need of paint job and a new roof. Tears blurred his vision. This had burned down...years ago.

“Bobby! Bobby!” Dean yelled rushing forward and up the steps. He barely paused to open the door, bursting his way into the house. “BOBBY!”

Maybe this was heaven? Had Amara killed him after all? Silence answered him.

“Bobby! Damn it, if you’re here, answer me!” Dean shouted moving room through the room. The old man wasn’t there. All of his things, were, as far a Dean could tell. The house was exactly as he’d remembered it from every book to the lumpy couch. Yet, it was quiet, too quiet.

Dean rushed over to one of the many phones Bobby man and picked up the receiver. There was no dial tone. He tried the next one. More silence. Digging into his pocket, Dean dug out his cell phone. He flipped it on, no signal.

“What the hell?” Where was he? He looked around and picked up Bobby’s old radio and flipped it on. There was only static.

Suddenly the house didn’t feel welcoming and familiar, but ominous. It was bordering on a nightmare to be dropped alone into the one place that had been the closest thing he known to a home, especially when the place didn’t exist anymore.

Slowly, Dean backed at out of the room into the kitchen and turned toward the and door. The was a fluttering sound, like a flock of birds landing in unison. It was familiar and frightening. _Angels._ His gun was in his hands pointed and ready.

“Dean?” Someone called behind him.

 _No!_ Dean knew that voice. It was the stuff of his dreams and nightmares. His heart twisted and his hands shook. He turned.

“Cas.” Dean dropped the gun and stumbled backward. _Cas!_

The angel tilted his head to the side for a moment, as if listening. He glanced around the room before suddenly charging forward. He grabbed Dean by the collar and lifted him. “Where are we?”

 _You’re alive!_ Dean hung in the angel’s grasp, staring into his blue eyes which burned blue in righteous fury.  “B..Bobby’s?”

Cas’s narrowed his eyes searching Dean’s green. “What have you done?”

“I…” How could he answer that question? What was Castiel really asking him? There was so much Dean had to answer for, and he’d thought his chance had passed. Yet, Castiel was here and alive!

Castiel snarled and let go of Dean, shoving him back into the sink. There was another fluttering sound, and the angel was gone.

 _Amara._ Dean sank to his knees staring at the spot where the angry angel had been. She had given him back Castiel. He didn’t know whether to be grateful or terrified.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A nice long chapter to help get the story moving forward. I hope you all like where this is going. Again, when I wrote Part 1, this is always how I conceived of Part 2 going. 
> 
>  
> 
> **Kudos and comments are like caffeine, they keep the muse fueled and going.**
> 
> Unbeated

The door of the bunker felt as heavy as Sam’s heart and swung as shut behind him a loud bang that echoed loudly through the empty building. He stepped slowly down the stairs, head hung low. He was alone now. It wasn’t that he was just absence the company of Rowena and Crowley, he’d left them back at the bar, but there was no one to come home to now. The bunker was empty.

As soon as Sam had seen the sun shining high in the sky again and noticed Chuck was gone, he’d known he’d always return home alone. His family was gone. First Amara had killed Cas and now she’d killed his brother. In time, the fact that the universe still existed would be a comfort, but not now. There was no consolation in the sound of his steps ringing hollowly around him.

 _Dean!_ Sam hoped he was at peace and that Billie had ended taken him beyond Heaven or Hell. His brother had never recovered from what happened when he’d been a demon. He could barely look at Sam and when he did, it was only after he’d been drinking heavier than normal. Then Dean would look at him with such unfathomable pain and self-loathing that Sam feared on more than one occasion his brother was a danger to himself.

Sam had long ago forgiven Dean. It wasn’t just because his brother hadn’t been responsible for the humiliation and the torture the demon had inflicted upon Sam, it was also because Dean would never forgive himself.  

The older Winchester carried the guilt of how the demon had hurt their family. He’d accepted the responsibility for violating and debasing Castiel to the point angel had left them, the bond between him and Dean broken.

Perhaps that’s why Sam hadn’t fought Dean’s suicide mission to yet again thwart the Apocalypse. While Castiel had been alive, Sam had had some hope that maybe things could get better. He’d had hope that somehow they’d be a family again. In some ways, finding Chuck had only strengthened that faith.

However, even before that, Sam had clung to the fact the angel had at least kept in touch with him was proof that Cas hadn’t totally abandoned the Winchesters. Since saving Dean, Cas had called Sam. The contact had been infrequent at first, but over time it had grown. Together they’d helped each other. Sam had aided Cas with his search for his grace and the angel had done what he could to assist with Sam’s quest to free Dean from the Mark. Castiel had also been there for Sam for the consequences as well.

 _He’d said ‘yes’ to Lucifer to save me._ Sam knew the truth. Sure, the angel may also have believed that Lucifer might really have been an option to fight Amara, but deep down Sam knew that wasn’t the real reason.

Castiel had come busting into Hell with Dean, the first time he’d seen them together since the day they’d defeated the demon. Together they’d charged and fought Lucifer.

Sam had been terrified, the memories of the horrors of the time he’d spent with Lucifer all too fresh crowding out even the more recent memories of what had happened to him in the bunker.  Somehow, though, he’d found the will to say ‘no’ to Lucifer.

Maybe it’s because of what had happened with Dean that Sam found the strength to deny the devil. He knew that if he’d let Lucifer in again, Dean and Castiel would suffer.

Cas had known it too. Sam had seen something in the angel’s eyes. They’d learned to read each other well while they’d been at the Deanmon’s mercy, as well as their time in recovering from it.

That’s how Sam knew why Cas did it. Lucifer would never have left him alone. Even if he’d made it out of the Cage again, the devil would have tormented him with visions until Sam went insane again and broke. _Cas said ‘yes’ to save me._

It was stupid and self-destructive. It was a poorly thought out plan. _It nearly got Dean killed._ Yet, it was Cas and in the end, it had almost worked. Lucifer _had_ tried to play for Team Free Will.

Sam shook his head pushing back on the memories of Lucifer in Castiel’s body roaming the bunker. Dean had been nearly insensible with booze and self-hatred. It didn’t help that Lucifer had needled him every chance he’d had.

Once Sam had come tearing into the kitchen after hearing raised voices and the loud clattering of dishes crashing to the floor. Dean had had Lucifer, bloody and laughing, pinned to the wall.

It had taken the voice of Chuck, who’d followed on Sam’s heels, to break the fight up and to get Dean to let Lucifer go. The devil had giggled and winked at Sam before throwing him a kiss. Dean had stormed out of the bunker.

Hours later Sam had gotten a call from a dive three hours away to come and pick his brother up. Dean had given the barkeep a wad of cash, Sam’s number, and instructions to call it once he’d drunk himself to unconsciousness.

“Hello, hello.” A woman’s voice, in a formal British accent, suddenly sounded through the bunker as Sam reached the bottom step jerking him out his thoughts.

Snapping his head up in surprise, Sam reached for his gun.

“Don't,” a blond woman in a tailored pantsuit warned. She was pointing her own pistol at him. She gave him a curt smile. “Sam Winchester. Toni Bevell. Men of Letters, London Chapterhouse.”

Sam narrowed his eyes in confusion, his hands hovering at his waist. _Men of Letters...London?_ “You, um...What?”

“Oh, you won't have heard of me—us. We're very traditional. Keep out of the way, keep to our studies,” she explained. She inched the pistol slightly higher. “They sent me to take you in.”

“To take me in?” Sam half turned as if looking around for some sort indication this was a setup, a joke.

“Assuming the world didn't end, and— Yay.” This Toni woman sounded bored.

Sam’s face grew flush as his temper began to rise past his shock and grief. “Look, lady—”

“We've been watching you, Sam.” The woman cut him off. “What you've done, the damage you've caused—archangels, Leviathans, the Darkness, and now, well— the old men have decided enough's enough. I mean, let's face it, Sam. You're just a jumped-up hunter playing with things you don't understand and doing more harm than good. Now, where's Dean?”

“Dead.” His answer was flat and cold. Sam was done. He had just lost everything and he didn’t need some arrogant stranger in his home pointing a gun at him! He stepped forward. “Listen, lady. I don't know who the hell you are or what the hell you want—”

“Stop,” she warned him again.

Sam twisted his lips into half parody of a smile. He’d faced the devil himself. Her little pistol was supposed to scare him? “Put the gun down.”

“I said stop.” She was calm and collected as if she’d had her own turn at staring down the devil.

What was she going to do? Shoot him? That would defeat the purpose of taking him in? “You and I both know you aren’t going to sh-”

Suddenly a loud growl erupted from the woman’s right. She screamed, the gun fired, and Sam dove to his left. He watched in horror as the woman went flying to the floor, blood spraying from her arm as the flesh shredded before Sam’s eyes.

He rolled to a crouch and looked around, but couldn’t see anything.

The mysterious Toni Bevell let out another high pitched scream. Her arm jerked out to the side and she began sliding across the floor kicking and flailing. A smear of blood followed her as she was hauled away from Sam as if she were being dragged by an animal.

 _Hellhound!_ It had to be. Sam rose to his feet, pulling his gun out pointing it in the vague direction of the invisible beast. He didn’t really want to take the shot. There was a high probability he’d hit the woman and even a higher one it would have no effect on the hound other than to piss it off.

“Crowley!” Sam yelled. These dogs were his pets. The demon had to be somewhere nearby. 

There was a sharp whistle and suddenly the woman’s arm flopped to the floor. Crowley stepped out from behind one of the bunker’s archways. “Hello, Moose.”

Sam shifted his gun to aim at the demon. It would do him even less good against the King of Hell, but it was the principle of the thing. “What are you doing here? What’s going on?”

“Funny you should ask,” Crowley stepped forward slowly sniffing as we walked around the woman who was now cradling her tattered arm and staring wildly around the bunker. “London Men of Letters. Bloody bunch of cockroaches.”

“Crowley!” Sam had very little patience and access to all sorts of weapons in the bunker. The King of Hell had better have some answers.

“Right.” Crowly stepped within arms reach and held out a piece of paper to Sam. “Found this in my pocket after you left. Read it while I get rid of Mrs. Belvedere over there.”

“What is it? A contract?” Sam asked glancing at the British woman before taking the parchment from Crowley’s hand. If she’d made a deal, there wasn’t much he could do to help her.

Sam stared at the document for a moment. It was plain type paper, but there was something familiar about it.  It reminded him of something he’d seen before. _But where?_

“Oh..something far more intriguing than that,” Crowley assured as he walked back over the woman. He glanced down at her. “Moose here is far too much of a do-gooder to simply let me exterminate the place. So where will it be then, luv? Hmmm? I hear Mogadishu is lovely this time of year.”

Crowley’s words sunk in and Sam glanced up. “Wait. What-!”

It was too late, the demon smiled and snapped his fingers. Both he and the injured woman disappeared.

“Damn it, Crowley! Come back here!” Sam growled.

Only silence answered Sam. _Did he take the hound with him too?_ What was going on? Was it too much for the universe to just stop and give him a break long enough to mourn his losses? The only answer Sam had to any of his questions was the note in his hand.

Sighing he took another look at it. The one side was blank, but when he turned it over there were letters on it. Black ink print bled on to the paper as if typed rather than printed or photocopied.  Sam scanned the words and his breath caught in his throat.

 

_“Hello, hello.” A woman’s voice, in a formal British accent, suddenly sounded through the bunker as Sam reached the bottom step jerking him out his thoughts._

_Snapping his head up in surprise, Sam reached for his gun._

_“Don't,” a blond woman in a tailored pantsuit warned. She was pointing her own pistol at him. She gave him a curt smile. “Sam Winchester. Toni Bevell. Men of Letters, London Chapterhouse.”_

_Sam narrowed his eyes in confusion, his hands hovering at his waist. Men of Letters...London? “You, um...What?”_

_“Oh, you won't have heard of me—us. We're very traditional. Keep out of the way, keep to our studies,” she explained. She inched the pistol slightly higher. “They sent me to take you in.”_

 

Sam’s mouth was dry and his heart beat loud and erratically in his chest. He wasn’t sure what scared or excited him more. Was it that the words on the paper were the exact description of what had just occurred moments ago or was it because he recognized the type on the paper? He’d seen this once long ago when he’d gone to meet a reclusive author by the name of  Chuck Shurley, a.k.a the Prophet of the Lord, a.k.a God himself.

Why had Crowley had this in his pocket? What did it mean? Was it a message from...Chuck?

 

***

 

Castiel hovered just under the edge at the boundary high above the junkyard below. He stretched his wings, the tips just brushing up against the borderline. A strange tingling sensation ran through them, not unpleasant but definitely uncomfortable.

He sighed, drifting down so he was no longer making contact with the pale blue line barely discernable in the morning sky.  Turning, he scanned the skyline again. Though the sun was cresting in the east it was beyond the strange perimeter which formed a dome around Bobby’s home. While the horizon seemed endless, it was an illusion.

Castiel had flown as high and wide as the border would allow. He had tested it and fought against it through the night. He’d raged against it, using his true voice hoping to shatter it. It had only left him with frustration, anger, and questions.

Why was he alive? Why was he here? Why was Dean here? Castiel glanced at his wings. In some ways, they were the most disturbing of all. While he’d found his grace before he’d died, there hadn’t been much of it left. Reuniting with it had revealed his wings had been little more than bones with tattered feathers.  

The grace hadn’t left him much stronger either. It had kept him from being human, allowed him to heal himself and offer some aid to others, but he wasn’t the seraph he’d once been. Castiel had been a faded copy of himself. It had seemed fitting, given how far he’d fallen.

Yet, here, in this place this… _Prison._ Rage and fear bubbled up inside of Castiel. He’d sworn he’d never be captive again, especially not at the mercy of… He glanced toward the ground. Dean was down there.

Castiel had shut himself off to the older Winchester’s soul months ago. Yet, here in this version of Bobby’s, it was almost impossible not to hear it. _I can hear nothing else._ That was another facet of the mystery, Castiel could not hear Heaven. There was no idle background noise of “angel radio.” Nor could he feel the heavy sorrow of Sam that had been a constant irritant for Castiel.

He closed his eyes and concentrated, building up barriers and pushing away the thrum of confusion and panic he felt from the human below. It should be easy. He wasn’t the same angel he’d been before he’d died.

Castiel had been locked away inside of Lucifer. He’d made the deal to be the devil’s vessel to help save the world and to save Sam. However, he’d also done it because he’d been tired.

Living with the memories and guilt was hard. He’d failed Dean. Castiel had let the demon violate and debase him. He’d given into the demon and Dean hated him for it.

 _Cas...you dumb son of a bitch._ Those had been Dean’s first words to the angel once he’d been cured.

“NOOO!” Cas screamed in his true voice. Lightning flashed through the air. What right had Dean to be angry? Castiel had done everything he could to save him, to save Sam. He’d sacrificed and suffered. He’d let…

Castiel shook his head, tears coursing down his cheeks. _This_ is why he’d given himself to Lucifer. This is why he’d welcome being buried deep in the devil’s mind, unaware of what was happening around him until that last moment when Lucifer had suddenly fled and Cas had woken to himself.

He’d had a millisecond to register that he was facing an angry Amara before her power slammed into, tearing apart his grace. The pain had been agonizing, but he welcomed it. He was no longer facing a millennial existence carrying the hurt, the shame, and the fear. He’d wouldn’t have to live with Dean’s contempt or his own failure. He’d thought he’d heard Dean scream and then there had been nothing.

The Empty had been nice. Castiel wiped his cheeks. Finally, he’d found peace but now he was back. He was awake and fully restored.

Snarling he looked around. He’d begun to have an idea of what this place was but he wasn’t certain. For that, he’d need to talk to Dean.

 

LIGHTENING FLASHED OVERHEAD and Dean flinched. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky. _Cas_. Dean wasn’t sure what the angel was doing, but he was certain the angel was behind the crackling bursts of light which had gone on many times through the night.

Not that they had woken Dean. He hadn’t slept. Instead, he’d gone room by room through the house trying to find answers. Looking for any clues about where they were. The place couldn’t really be Bobby’s, it had burned to the ground four years ago thanks to fucking Dick Roman. The Leviathan had not only destroyed Bobby’s home, but he’d also killed Bobby.

Sighing, Dean swiped a hand down his face and rubbed his jaw. He was back in the front room again. Everything was exactly like Bobby’s from this room to the bedroom where Dean used to crash. _Hell, even Bobby’s damn panic room is in the basement._

All of it was exactly how Dean remembered from books to weapons, and even the clothes he’d left stashed in a duffle upstairs. _Was it really Bobby’s? Had he and Cas somehow time traveled?_ It wouldn’t be his first rodeo.

The house was even fully stocked. There was a three months supply of MRI’s in the pantry, a freezer full of microwaveable meals and frozen pizzas, and a refrigerator full of cold meats, condiments, and other necessities.

There was only one missing detail Dean could find, booze. He glanced at one of the bookshelves about to split apart from being overstuffed with large tomes of dusty volumes of occult lore.  Sometimes Bobby kept the good stuff hidden there.

He stepped over to the shelf and began rummaging through it. No way could he face Cas sober. Hell, he couldn’t face himself without being always at least two-thirds of a bottle down the gullet and it had been hours since he’d finished his send-off six-pack at the bunker.

There was a fluttering of wings. Dean froze for a moment, his soul and body torn. Part of him was desperate to turn around and just take in the image of Castiel. Dean had missed him. He’d felt the loss of his friend, his soulm… Dean had thought he’d known what losing Cas had felt like the moment he’d watched the angel turn and leave him bound in the bunker.

However, Dean had been wrong. He hadn’t known what losing Castiel was like, what it was _really_ like until Amara had killed the angel. Then Dean had known an ache that went deeper than anything thing he’d ever known.

So yeah, everything inside of him wanted to turn and just stare at Cas. He wanted to just drink in the sight of him, like a thirty-year-old case of whiskey, but Dean was also afraid.

Cas had damned good reasons for leaving Dean. The angel had every right to shut him out. What Dean had done to him, was unforgivable. How could Dean even begin? What was he supposed to say? _Sorry I raped and tortured you? Let’s go get a cheeseburger._

The angel should have just looked for ways to kill him, not save him. He shouldn’t have… _Damnit, Cas, I’m not worth it._

“Dean.” The angel didn’t speak his name in greeting. It was a command.

Slowly Dean turned around. His breath hitched. Castiel was glorious. He was standing in the archway of the room, sunlight illuminating him. His neatly combed black hair contrasting with the brilliant blue of his eyes.  He was dressed in his familiar trenchcoat, slacks, dress shirt, and tie.

“Hiya, Cas.” Dean somehow got the words out.

The angel narrowed his eyes. “My name is Castiel.”

 _Yeah, of course, it is._ Dean lowered his eyes, hiding the pain behind them. They weren’t friends anymore. _Friends don’t shove their dicks up each other’s asses after whipping them bloody._

“I need answers.” Castiel’s gravelly voice with thick with impatience.

Dean took a deep breath and pushed back his shoulders, standing straight. He raised his eyes again to meet the angel’s gaze. He wasn’t sure he had any to give the angel, but what he had, he would. He owed Cas...Castiel that, and more.  “I’ll do my best.”

“Will you?” The question was full of contemptuous doubt. Castiel took a step forward. “Be warned, just in case you are contemplating being anything less than forthright with me…”

Suddenly the house began to shake. The air went sour with the smell of ozone and the lamps began to spark and impossible shadows began to form around the room as all light seemed to converge and arch around the angel.

Dean stumbled backward, widening his eyes in awe. His gut twisted in a combined feeling of terror and reverence he hadn’t felt since the first time he’d laid eyes on Castiel. If Dean had previously thought the angel had been glorious, Castiel was now a brilliant and imposing symbol of the divine towering before him.

Castiel stood a few short steps from Dean, his eyes glowing like two diamonds illuminated by the blue sky.  Behind him, massive ephemeral black wings began to spread out filling the room and touching the ceiling. They seemed both intangible and enticing as if they were made of nothing but shadow and cosmos, but yet were also made of the softest down.

“...know that I am fully restored.” Castiel’s voice boomed in the room like thunder focusing Dean’s attention on the angel’s words and not his wings. “I am a Seraph again. A soldier of Heaven. Do not test me.”

Dean swallowed back a sharp taste of fear. This was a more powerful Castiel then he’d first met, the one who’d pulled him from perdition and threatened to throw back into it. _Maybe he should have._

“Cas...Castiel, what do you want to know?” Dean asked holding up his hands in the universal sign of surrender.

As swiftly as they had manifested, the wings disappeared and the lighting of the room returned to normal. The air still held the faint pungent odor of ozone. “What happened?”

“What?” Dean asked, twisting his head slightly in confusion. “I don’t…”

“Where’s Amara? What happened? How did we get here?” Castiel’s fired off his questions, raining them down on Dean like blows.

“Gone. She left with Chuck. I don’t know.” Dean rattled the answers off without really thinking about them.

Growling, Castiel closed the distance between them. “Details, Dean.”

Dean licked his lips unconsciously. Castiel was so close, he could feel the angel’s breath on his cheek. He could feel the heat of his vessel emanating around his own body. _No!_

Curling his fingers into his palms hard enough to draw blood, Dean overrode his own physiology. The demon had drug Dean’s secret desires out of from the deepest closets he’d hid them. It had debased and corrupted them, using them to torture and hurt the one being Dean loved and wanted to keep innocent.

While Dean would never, could never do those things to Castiel again, it didn’t mean he hadn’t been haunted by the memories. It didn’t mean that his body hadn’t remembered the feel of the angel next to him, under him.  

There had been too many nights Dean had woken with the wet feel of his spunk cooling against his skin and the taste of Castiel on his lips. Those had been the nights he’d needed to drink until he’d black out just to function.

 _I deserve to be back on the rack, not at Bobby’s!_ Dean gave himself a mental shake and focused on the blue eyes boring into his. “After you die…” He wasn’t going to say the words. He wouldn’t tempt fate.

“After Amara killed Lucifer. She wounded Chuck. Like, call Death’s replacement for the big Reap wounded him.” Dean started again. “The sun started to go out. We regrouped back at the bunker. We came up with a plan to create a soul bomb to...generate enough light to overwhelm her darkness.”

Castiel tilted his head. “A soul bomb?”

“Billie, a reaper helped. Giving us a bunch from the Veil. Rowena, of course, put it all together,” Dean continued.

“How were you going to deliver this...bomb?” Castiel asked.

Dean gave a shrug. “Me. We knew she’d let me close, because of our so-called ‘bond.’ So, Team Last Ditch Effort armed me up and…”

Castiel suddenly moved, grasping Dean by his jacket and lifting him onto his toes. His eyes darting around, examing Dean as if looking for traces of the weapon.

“Cas?” It came out as a squeak.

The angel locked his eyes back on Dean’s before giving him a little shake, hard enough to rattle his teeth together. “Of course you offered yourself up as the instrument of her destruction. What did Sam say? You rushing off to die again, abandoning him.”

“It was the end of the world!” Dean snapped, Castiel’s questions cutting into him like an angel blade. “I didn’t have a choice! Chuck...God...your father was dying and creation was coming undone. We.. _.I_ had to stop her.”

Castiel released his hold on Dean, dropping him, before turning and taking a few steps away.

Dean fell to the floor. Keeping his eyes on Castiel, he warily got to his feet backed up against the bookshelf.

“And did you?” Castiel asked, his back to Dean. “Did you destroy, Amara?”

“No,” Dean answered tugging at the hem of his jacket trying to gain some sense of order. “She sensed it was a trap the moment I showed.”

Castiel turned and looked at Dean. He lifted an eyebrow. “Then what happened?”

“We talked.” The explanation sounded weak and anti-climatic to Dean’s ears, but hell, that’s what had happened.

“Talked?” The angel spat question out. “About what?”

“Family. Forgiveness.” Dean looked at the floor.

Castiel let out a bitter laugh. “Well you would be the expert on those things, wouldn’t you, Dean.”

“Cas…” Dean flinched, raising his eyes to his friend.

The angel dropped his blade into his palm and glared at Dean. “It is Castiel.”

Dean glanced at the blade then back to Castiel’s face. It was as hard and unyielding as the weapon. He nodded.

“So what happened after you... _talked_?” Castiel asked.

“Amara and Chuck made up. They fixed the world, decided to go on a family vacation, and left,” Dean sighed.

Castiel glanced around the room. “That doesn’t explain this.”

“I don’t know. Amara did say something odd before she and Chuck disappeared into ...well went cosmic rays of something.” Dean rubbed a hand at the back of his neck. He was sure this was connected, but he still hadn’t any idea of _how_ it was. “She said, ‘You gave me something I needed most. I want to do the same for you.’”

Dean waved his arms around and looked about. “Then the next thing I know it’s the middle of the night and I’m stumbling around Bobby’s salvage yard and then…” His words catch in his throat.

“And then?” Castiel tilts his head to the side, staring at Dean.

 _You._ It’s a prayer. Dean doesn’t mean it to be, but he’s not worried about it. He knows Cas stopped listening to him a long time ago. Sighing, Dean stepped away from the bookshelf and headed for Bobby’s desk. The old man used to keep a flask in the bottom of the third drawer on the right.

“Look, Castiel, I don’t know where we are...or maybe _when_ we are. I don’t know how we got here or why. Just, let me find a drink and then I’ll help you figure this out.” Dean yanked the drawer open.

“That won’t be necessary, Dean,” Castiel said, his voice eerily calm.

Dean looked up, his hand half buried under a stack of translated notes from the Egyptian Book of the Dead. He frowned. “You gonna share with the class?”

“This place doesn’t exist.” Castiel took a step toward the window and looked out it.

Dean straightened. “It sure feels real enough.”

“I didn’t say it wasn’t real. I said it didn’t exist. Not in any normal sense of human understanding.”

 _Well didn’t that just sound peachy?_ “What’s that supposed to mean?” Dean leaned over the desk, placing his palms flat on top of it for support, bracing for an answer he wasn’t sure he wanted to hear.

“Look outside,” Castiel pointed. “See the horizon.”

Dean squinted. Like everything else about the place, the view was the same. “Looks like South Dakota skies to me.”

“Looks endless, doesn’t it? It’s not.” Castiel looked back at Dean. “I flew in every direction and as high as I could. There’s a border, a barrier, like a dome just around the property line.”

“What?” Dean asked.

“But it’s not really a barrier,” Castiel continued. “It’s more like an edge.”

“An edge...of what?” His head was starting to hurt. He really needed that booze.

“To everything,” Castiel said matter of factly.

Dean shook his head. “Cas..stiel, look I know you're just back from the dead and I know how that screws with your head, but you aren't making any sense-”

“We are in a pocket dimension,” Castiel stepped forward and interrupted him. He leaned over the desk, once again, invading Dean’s personal space. His eyes flashing, he snarled, “Congratulations, Dean. You saved the world...again...and the cosmic forces of the universe have rewarded you with your own peaceful little world and your _pet_ angel to boot.”

Dean felt like he’d been kicked in the gut. All the air left his lungs in a rush, and he couldn’t seem to breathe any back inside. _No! This isn’t what he wanted, let alone_ **_needed_ ** _._

“Castiel, no...I-” Oxygen or not somehow the words were starting to spill out of his mouth, he was trying to explain.

Suddenly, his was flying through the air. Pain exploded along his back and immense pressure was pushing against his chest. He tried to stand, but there was nothing under his feet. He blinked, trying to clear his vision.

Castiel stood in front of him, his arm raised and his hand out. His head was tilted slightly to the side, and the air seemed to crackle around him.  “I do not consent, Dean.”

 _Consent?_ Dean looked around. He was pinned high up against the wall. He looked back at Castiel, eyes wide with fear.

“Do you understand? I am not your reward for a job well done. I am not your ‘buddy’ or your friend. I am not here to be anything you need...to be at your mercy...to be your…”

For a moment the pressure against Dean’s chest was increased, like a truck backing up against it. There was a sharp stabbing pain in his ribs as if one or more were beginning to crack.  He would have screamed if he could.

“I do not consent to this,” Castiel said again. Then there was the flutter of wings, and he was gone.  

Dean dropped face first to the floor, sucking down gulps of air. He landed with a thud. Agony bloomed across his chest. He rolled over and stared up at the ceiling. Chuck, he needed a drink.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Diligently working on the 3rd chapter. About half-way through. Muse is insisting certain events have to take place which is taking time. Be patient. Hope to have it up by the weekend.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't think I was ever going to get this chapter finished. It's horribly unbetaed. However, I finally got it to where I wanted it to be. So much more groundwork to cover. 
> 
> So my busy fall just got busier. I'm going to my first SPN con! JJ won't be there, but Misha will be! So, for three weekends in a row I will be traveling (and will have a b-day snuck in there somehow).
> 
> My goal is to keep plugging away. 
> 
>  
> 
> **Kudos and compliments keep me writing.**

Dean hissed as he secured the medical tape in place. It was tight and pinched his skin. He grasped the edge of the sink and took a shallow breath. His ribs still hurt, but the raw edge to the pain was gone. The tape was doing its job.

Sighing he lifted his head and stared in the mirror. His face gazed back at him. Dean hated looking at his reflection. He was afraid of what he might see.

 _Still human._ He looked like shit though. The eyes staring back at him were green, not black, but under them were dark-purplish half moons made all the darker looking by the pale pallor of the rest of his skin. A fine sheen of sweat covered him, making a mocking contrast to his chafed and dry lips.

He reached for the faucet and twisted it. The old pipes protested for a moment, and then cold water shot out the tap like prisoners making a break for it. Dean stuck a cupped a hand under the spray

He gathered a few handfuls of the cool water using it to splash the sweat from his face. Then he collected a few more handfuls to take a drink, easing a dryness at the back of his throat that did little to quench his real thirst. Grimacing, he turned the water off then leaned over the sink reaching for a towel hanging off the rack.

A spasm of pain rippled down his side and across his back. “Damn it!” He sucked in a sharp breath and froze, waiting for his aching muscles and cracked ribs to adjust. Dean closed his eyes. He deserved this. Hell, he merited much more than this. He hadn’t expected it though.

Castiel had always had been his friend. The angel had always backed his plays. _He’d rebelled against heaven for me._ Rarely had the angel hurt Dean and when he had, it had been under some sort of duress. _Like that bitch Naomi._

However, that was then and this was now. That was before Dean had given the angel reason to hate him. Castiel had plenty of reasons to take Dean apart. _No angel reprogramming necessary._

 _Given that Cas...Castiel is back to full power…_ A new tremor shot through Dean. He’d be a fool if he wasn’t just a little afraid. The last time he’d seen the angel, he’d barely had enough grace to keep him from being human.

Now, Castiel was back to a full Seraph. He had his wings and the ability to throw Dean with just a thought. The angel’s strength alone could break Dean’s limbs like toothpicks, and Castiel was angry.

 _I do not consent._ The last time Castiel had been trapped, locked away with Dean, the angel had been coerced and manipulated into agreeing to debase himself.

Images, Dean fought to keep locked away into the deepest pits of his psyche leached through to his consciousness. Cas stripped naked, wet, dried spunk on his face, and hanging from a showerhead whispering to Dean, “Please, hurt me.”

Dean’s stomach turned. He bent over the sink and retched, spitting up bile and the little water he’d drank earlier. His sore ribs and bruised muscles protested, triggering another wave of painful spasms. Puking again, he gripped the edge of the sink tight until his knuckles turned white.

For several long moments, he was locked into a vicious cycle of painful cramps and dry-heaving until he was shaking so hard he could barely stand.  Eventually, his system settled. He panted, doubled over the sink, breathing in the sour smell of his own sick.

Wearily he forced himself upright. He took a deep breath before rinsing and cleaning out the sink. Then once again, he washed his face. Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath and exhaled slowly.

He felt weak, raw, and shaky. He needed a drink, bad. Focusing, he opened his eyes and stumbled back to his room and managed to ease his way back into his t-shirt. The process left him feeling old and tired.

Glancing around the room, he tried to think of any place he hadn’t already checked a second or even third time for booze. _Nope._ He’d gone through everything. How was he going to keep the memories at bay sober? How could he face Cas, without some liquid courage?

“Damn it, Amara!” Dean growled. “If you were going to give me what I needed, why didn’t it include a case of Jack?”

He sighed. Where was Cas? _He’d said were in a pocket dimension. Where could he go?_ Dean wasn’t all to sure he really wanted to know where the angel was, except that he was pretty certain he didn’t want to be wherever Castiel happened to be at the moment. He laid a hand over his ribs. _Can’t stay out of his way, if I don’t know I’m standing in it._

Rubbing the back of his head and sighing, Dean made the effort to head for the door. Downstairs, that’s where Bobby kept all his books. If Dean was going to find anything that might help him and Cas find a way out of this world made for two, it would be in Bobby’s occult collection.

Navigating the stairs was a slow and gritting process taking far longer than Dean would care to admit. Each step jolted his ribs, reminding him how badly he was beaten up. Sure, he’d been beaten up worse, much worse, but he’d at least always had a little of the hard stuff to help to take the edge of the pain. _Loosen up the ligaments._

Still, the physical pain wasn’t anything he couldn’t endure. Compared to his time on the rack, it didn’t even rank as a heavy petting session. The mental anguish, that was a different torment.

Dean would gladly suffer it, except that it wasn’t his misery alone. _Cas._ There had been a time the angel had been Dean’s literal salvation. Castiel had fought the denizens of Hell, and pulled Deans’s soul free from Perdition.

The angel had rebuilt Dean. Castiel had resurrected Dean, giving him not just life again but hope. He’d also become the best friend Dean had ever had, forsaking even Heaven for the hunter.

Even at Dean’s worst betrayals, Castiel had always looked at him as if he really was the “Righteous Man.” Dean had kicked a wholly human and lost angel out of the bunker order to hide Dean’s secret, how he manipulated Sammy into playing angel condom for Gadreel. Dean had thrown Castiel, and the angel had accepted it.

 _He died because of it!_ Dean gasped as his foot slipped off the final step. Grabbing the wall, he steadied himself. His vision swam a moment with memories of Castiel’s angel blade sticking out his gut from where the reaper bitch April had shoved and left it.

Dean’s heartbeat quickened and his mouth went dry. He’d been too fucking late!  Sure, Dean had used that same blade and killed the skank, but in the end, it hadn’t changed things. All, Dean could do was stare at Castiel’s tortured and lifeless body, before cupping the angel's face in his hands, calling out his name.

It was in that moment, all the feelings Dean had been all the rivers of denial had overflown their banks. Cas wasn’t just a friend or a brother. The angel was something more.

Dean couldn’t pretend the long lingering looks or the urges to touch Castiel, to straighten his tie, grasp his shoulder, and hug him tight were something anything less than a desire for the celestial being. Dean loved him. In all his impudence, Dean Winchester had dared to love an angel of the Lord and because of him that beautiful being who was worth more than a hundred of Dean had died.

The fault had been on Dean. The older Winchester had never forgiven himself for what had happened, nor would he allow himself to believe he was worthy of the feelings he had for the angel, even if he’d had the courage to act upon them. Hangups and feelings of self-worth aside, memories of the rack had made sure Dean wasn’t that brave.

In the end, Gadreel had brought Castiel back and Cas had done what Dean couldn’t do, forgive him.

 _Why, Cas? You should have just run then!_ Dean stumbled over to the desk. His head was beginning to pound. If only the angel had. If he’d just left the Winchesters, stayed away from Dean, the demon would never have…

Dean slammed his fist into the old oak. _I corrupted him long before the demon laid a finger on him._ It was the cold sober truth. Dean was a cancer, a disease perverting and tainting anyone who got close. He’d probably damned Castiel the moment the angel had first touched him in Hell.

Other memories threatened to overwhelm Dean, more intimate recollections of damning touches. They would ruin a restored Castiel. _No! Never again._ Dean would never soil the angel again with his filth.

Dean hung his head. He really needed that drink. He was no good trying to find a way out of here until he could clear his head, and the only that was going to happen is if it was two-thirds of the way pickled. _Think!_ There had to be something here somewhere, someplace he hadn’t looked.

 _The garage!_ Dean snapped his head up, causing a nauseating throb. Ignoring it, he turned and headed for the door. Bobby kept a mini-fridge in the garage stocked with cold-ones.

He stumbled his way through the kitchen, out the back, and down the few steps. He kept his mind focused on his goal as he walked around the house toward the garage. _Grab a couple of brewskis, hit the books, find a way out of here, and then make Billie make good on her promise._ Oblivion was good. It was final, and from there he was certain he couldn’t hurt Cas anymore.

 _Sorry, Sammy, but I owe him._ Dean did. He should have been the one to bite it, not Castiel. Now, that Amara had brought the angel back, maybe Dean could finally do one thing right by him.

Dean rounded the corner of the house and his knees buckled dropping him to the ground. _Baby!_ He knelt the in the dirt, gravel digging into his kneecaps, staring at the sleek black Impala.

She’d once been a symbol of everything he cherished; freedom and family. The car had been his home and his Northstar. He’d hunted and loved in that car, but that was that was then.

Now, he’d spent months avoiding the car. He could remember the last time he’d driven her, but he didn’t want to. Instead, he’d done everything he could to avoid her. He’d moved her out of the bunker’s garage and parked her in an abandoned barn nearby. _Out of sight. Out of mind._

Except she wasn’t anymore. She was here, her chrome shining in the bright sun.

Groaning, Dean leaned forward and pushed himself back on his feet. _What was she doing here?_  Like a siren, the question called to him tugging him toward the car.

He shuffled his way over to her, his head pounding and his ribs aching. He approached her with a mix of caution and reverence. Reaching out, he ran his fingertips along the driver’s door. The metal was smooth and warm. Oh, how he’d missed her!

His pain and thirst forgotten, he slowly walked around the car, trailing his hand over her. For a moment he let himself get lost in sense memory. How many times had he worked on Baby here at Bobby’s? How many hours had he spent sweating in the sun humming AC/DC, dirtied with sweat and grease while giving her oil changes, swapping out spark plugs, or replacing timing belts? Could he have ever been happier?

 _Love me a virgin hole, better than pie._ The words slammed into Dean’s brain sending him stumbling back. Newer, unwanted recollections were crowding into his consciousness.

Cas bent over the back of the Impala, palms pressed flat to the trunk and his pants down around his ankles. His ass was bare, cheeks spread, and Dean’s engorged cock was pressing up against the angel’s anus.

 _Just lining up. You might want to take a deep breath. This is gonna sting like a bitch._ Dean had grabbed hold of Castiel’s waist, the angel’s skin had been warm under his palms. However, the heat had been nothing compared to the hot as the flesh Dean had forced his way into, shoving and rutting until his prick had been buried deep inside…

“NO!” Dean turned away from the car grabbing at his head as if he could pull the images from his brain. “No! Please...please...no!”

Cas had screamed, an anguished cry torn from the depth of his being. It was sound, unlike anything Dean had ever heard before. It should have stopped him, triggering an answering torment within himself. He’d loved the angel, bled for him and fought the monsters of Purgatory to protect him. Castiel had always been precious to him and even though the soldier of Heaven had no need of a guardian, Dean had felt protective of him.

The scream should have stopped Dean, but it hadn’t. Instead, it had excited him. It had fueled his lust and Dean had gripped the struggling angel tighter,  forcing himself into Cas’s body, tearing him.

 _Better than pie._ That’s what Dean had said as he’d bottomed out, his cock fully sheathed inside Cas, the angel’s screams still echoing through the garage.  Dean’s whole body had been alive with a salivating need to not only fuck the angel but to ruin him. Words had tumbled from his mouth.

Dean fought against the images flooding his mind. _Damn, you are so tight. It’s like I can feel your heart beating around my dick._

Cas had struggled again. Fought to get away from the thing impaling him, splitting him into.

The thing that Dean had become wouldn’t let him. It had yanked the angel back, spearing deeper still inside the poor creature. _Where you going, Cas? This is just the foreplay. We haven’t got to the fucking yet._

Dean shook his head, aggravating his pounding headache, hoping the pain would blot the onslaught of memories. It was no use. He still remembered the first time he raped Cas. _The_ _first_ _time._

Letting out a cry of anguish of his own,  Dean looked around for anything to help end the twisted replay in his brain. If he’d had his gun, he’d gladly eat a bullet. However, there were no firearms lying around, just some old tires, rusting car parts, and well-weathered crowbar.

Howling, Dean snatched the tool up from the ground. He turned it around and readied to pound it into his brain as hard as he could. _Live._ The command, the promise, rose up past his panic.

Dean had promised Sam he would live because that’s what Cas had wanted. When the angel was dead, Dean had felt no obligation to keep that promise. Yet, now Cas was back and Dean was bound by it again.

The realization slammed into him, spinning him around. He was trapped. There would be no oblivion, and without it, no peace. He swept his eyes around the yard, like an animal seeking an escape. His gaze landed on Baby.

Snarling, he charged forward. Ignoring the stabbing pain in his chest, Dean gripped the crowbar tight in both hands and swung it in a wild arc to send it crashing down on to the Impala's trunk. Over and over he struck the car as if with each blow and dent he could pound away his memories.

 

CASTIEL FLEW AS high as the boundary of their micro-universe would allow. He slammed against the edge of reality, barreling into it with his shoulder. He was not a laurel or an inducement to be awarded for good service. _Service!_ There was that word.

Howling, he charged the border again. Pain rippled through his back and his grace flared. He let himself fall for a moment, wind whistling through his wings before suddenly shifting his plane of existence from mid-air to apporting suddenly on the ground at the western edge of the property line.

He stood staring at the horizon, large white cumulonimbus clouds forming in the distance. _Service!_ From the Latin “servitium,” equivalent to “servus.” _Slave._ That’s what angels were, servants of Heaven. They carried out the will of God.

Chuck was his father? Dean had said so, and in the moment Castiel hadn’t questioned him. Even now, he didn’t. It all made sense. Castiel had been rebuilt after Raphael smote him while standing at Ch...his father’s side. Then he’d been restored again in Stull Cemetry after being destroyed by Lucifer before Sam overwhelmed the devil and threw them both into the Cage.

Both times Castiel had been saved. _For Dean._  The angel curled his hands into fists and looked heavenward. “Is this my purpose, Father? Not to be heaven’s servant but Dean’s?”

Images pulsed through the angel’s awareness. Memories captured down to the finest details. Each nuance of scent from the metallic smell of blood to the musky essence of ejaculate was as clear to him know as when…

 _No!_ Castiel called upon his grace and pushed back against the remembrances. Just because he could recall those abominations with perfect clarity did not mean he had to. Tears of frustration formed in his eyes. He’d witnessed the rise and fall of Phoenicia, seen the first bricks laid at the base of the pyramids in Giza, and beheld the hanging gardens of Babylon. Why wasn’t he plagued by those memories?

Green eyes squinted in laughter. The rumble of the Impala’s engine thrumming low on under the sounds of Metallica being sung loudly off key. These were also images and recollections from his past, once cherished and often replayed. Now they were like the clouds on the horizon, distant, abstract, and without form.

Castiel shook his head and stepped back. He turned and once again looked skyward. “I was at peace! Free of _all_ my memories.”

He looked around, old cars in various stages of disrepair and decay surrounded him. Tufts of plains grass grew tall and neglected between the disregarded automobiles. This was a recreation of the only place Dean had known as a home, it was his “heaven” and Castiel the angel to serve in it.

Yet, he had rebelled once. Denied his father’s will before. He could and would do so again. He had learned the lessons of free will. Dean had taught him.

Something in Castiel’s being ached. It was deeper than any of the other wounds he’d suffered from the demon. It was jagged and uneven, like the edges of a broken bone.

Once upon a time, Dean had been more than just a charge to Castiel. There had been a bond between them that went beyond friendship or family. In all of the measurements of his existence, Castiel had never known such a connection.

Through it, the angel had learned about humanity in ways no other angel had. He’d risen and he’d fallen because of it. He had felt things; love, loss, and even desire. The demon had destroyed all of it.

Castiel understood that Dean was not the demon and yet, he did not understand it.  It had used Dean’s deepest secrets and desires to break Castiel and the angel no longer had the connection or the courage to find out what those were. _Had the demon simply perverted them or acted upon them?_

After all, when Castiel had first found Dean, he’d been a twisted soul torturing others in Hell. _He’d been broken by Alistair._

Perhaps Dean had never been the Righteous Man? Could Castiel have been deceived from the beginning, blinded by his own naivete? Had he been tempted to fall not because Dean had been a good man worth saving but because the hunter had been corrupted all along?

Anger welled up inside Castiel. If he was honest, it wasn’t just the desire to escape the memories that had driven him into being a vessel for Lucifer, he had also wanted to be free from the doubt.

A howl of frustration and despair suddenly echoed around the yard.

Castiel jerked his head up, listening and identifying the source. _Dean!_ The angel frowned. What was wrong? Was there an unseen danger here? _Was this a trick?_ He stood with his blade in hand, continuing to monitor the direction from where Dean’s scream emanated. When the cries evolved into the sounds of pangs of metal pounding upon steel he once again shifted his plane of existence, teleporting to the source of the sounds.

He reappeared, only to find Dean swinging a tightly clenched crowbar and smashing it repeatedly across the Impala’s trunk. _Baby!_ Briefly, Castiel’s vision blurred the then overlapped with the now. He was back in the bunker bent over the back of the car and under Dean, the demon grabbing at….

 ** _BAM!_** The sound wrenched Castiel back into the present. Dean wasn’t behind and on top of him. The hunter was in front of the angel. Instead of a demon completely in command and in control of Castiel, there was Dean beating the back of the Impala as if it were another monster to be put down.

For a moment, Castiel stood rooted to the spot, staring at the frantic and aberrant scene before him. Dean’s t-shirt clung to damply him, dark perspiration stains forming along his back. His face was twisted in an ugly snarl while shining with tears and sweat.

Castiel was tempted to teleport away. This was not his problem. Dean was not his charge nor his concern. Yet, he couldn’t. Castiel watched the destruction of Baby with each of the hunter’s blows. As he did, something twisted inside.

Watching an instrument, a symbol of his violation should have brought some sense of satisfaction to Castiel. However, it had the opposite effect. Each strike was obliterating, ruining a sacred object. The Impala had been Sam and Dean’s home. It had been a sanctuary.  

It had also hosted other times, special ones between him and Dean.  There had been talks, soul-wrenching confessions to sly teasing and open laughter.  Dean had readied Castiel for a date that wasn’t in a moment which had seemed as if the hunter was preparing the angel for himself.

These were special and hallowed memories honored and embodied by the sleek black car. The demon had wanted to foul them as much as it had wanted to debase Castiel and had used it as part of the angel’s violation.

Whatever was spurring Dean to this act of devastation, Castiel couldn’t watch the Impala be defiled again. “STOP!”

The angel’s roar echoed through the yard but didn’t seem to phase the hunter.

“I said, stop!” Castiel thundered as he charged over to Dean and grabbed him mid-swing, high up on his left arm.

Dean struggled, his eyes locked onto the Impala.

“Dean!” Castiel twisted the hunter around, forcing his gaze on to the angel.

“C...Cas?” Dean stuttered, the crowbar suddenly slipping from his grasp and following to the ground with a dull thud. “Castiel?”

The angel shook Dean.  “Enough!”

The hunter gasped then made a gurgling noise as if biting back a scream. His face twisted into a grimace.

Castiel narrowed his eyes and studied Dean. The Winchester’s t-shirt hung strange and uneven across his chest. The tight fabric lumpy, as if it covered something more than just the man’s flesh.

Suspicious, Castiel yanked at the hem lifting it up causing Dean to let out a startled cry. The angel ignored it. _Medical tape._ It was wrapped tightly around the Winchester brother’s torso.

“Are you hurt?” Castiel asked, demanding an answer.

“It’s nothing,” Dean replied through clenched teeth.

The angel jerked him closer. “That is not what I asked.”

Dean yelped then held up his hands. “Ribs. A few cracked ribs. It’s nothing.”

Castiel stared a Dean in confusion. _How had his ribs…_ A small feeling of guilt snuck past the angel’s anger as realization set in. When he’d confronted Dean earlier, Castiel had slammed into the wall. He was responsible.

“I’m s…” Castiel stopped himself. He didn’t owe Dean that. _He has probably done himself more damage with his wanton acts of defilement._

The angel glanced at the car then back to Dean. He might not be in debt to the hunter, but he was still better than him. Castiel raised his friend hand, lifting it toward Dean’s forehead.

Dean opened his eyes wide first in understanding, then fear. He jerked against Castiel's hold, straining to break free from his grasp. “Cas, no.”

“No?” Castiel tightened his grip on the struggling hunter. “I am offering to-”

“I know what you are offering,” Dean said his voice shaking. “Don’t. I’m not w-”

Castiel’s fury reseized control, yanking out the tiny spout of guilt at its roots. His eyes flashing an ethereal blue, he laid his palm on across Dean’s forehead. “You no longer dictate how or when I use my grace. If I choose to heal you, Dean Winchester, then I will knit the fabric of your being together as easily as I can rip it apart.”

Intention and grace flowed through Castiel. Reaching out, he melded bone together healing it as if the cracks had never been.

Dean gasped.

“I do not serve you, Dean. I do not serve my Father. Make no mistake, _I_ am in control.” With another final shake, Castiel released him. "And it's Castiel."

Stumbling back a few steps, Dean pulled down his shirt. He stared at Castiel a long hard moment then ran.

  



	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, I'm back! Sorry for the long hiatus. Some health problems all through the holidays and then February is not my best mental health month. However, I have been steadily getting my headspace back together. So hope you enjoy this update! This chapter is unbetaed. Remember, **comments and kudos** are like flowers!

Sam rubbed his eyes. They were watery and yet at the same time they felt as if there were tiny bits of grit just beneath his eyelids. Sighing he reached for the half-full coffee cup to his right. He grimaced as he took a sip. It was cold and old. _A day old?_

He stopped trying to clear the exhaustion from his eyes and direct his gaze at the mug. Given the hue of the deep stain inside, he figured his guess was about right. _Time for a fresh pot._

Glancing down at the book in front of him, he carefully noted the last paragraph of which he’d been able to make any sense. It swam before him, indecipherable. _Fatigue and Sumerian, not a winning combination for easy comprehension._ He carefully closed the text, pushed back the chair, and fought back a groan as he stood.

He’d been sitting as long as the coffee mug, pouring through any tome that might give him insight as to how to contact Chuck or l, what the page Crowley found stuffed in his pocket l, might have meant.

Obviously, it was meant to warn Crowley of what waited for Sam back at the bunker. Chuck had sent Crowley to help, but why? Was it a farewell gift? Had God...Chuck felt guilty? _He should._

Sam couldn’t help the bitter thought. Dean had sacrificed himself to save all of Chuck’s creation. The old Winchester had saved everyone _._ _Again_. Once more Sam’s eyes began to water, this time not from exhaustion.

He turned around and leaned against the table his body shuddering as he took a deep breath fighting back the emotions that threatened to overwhelm him. _Focus._  He should eat something and maybe get a shower. He definitely needed sleep.

His body shook again. He wiped his hand slowly down his face. Or maybe, just maybe,  he should let this go. Perhaps he was reading far more into the page Chuck had slipped to Crowley then what was there. It was conceivable that he was just looking for a mystery, some puzzle to solve.   _A hunt._ He knew why. It was easier than mourning Dean.

Chasing down a case that “wasn’t” was easier than facing the reality that his brother was dead, truly dead. Billy had promised the next time either of them died there would be no escape clause, it would be final. There wouldn’t even be an afterlife. _No heaven or hell._  

Panic began clawing up from the pit of his spine toward the base of his neck. It was a clinging souring fear that threatened to engulf him. Sam couldn’t do it. He couldn’t face a reality where he’d never see Dean again. The air grew thin, his heart raced, and his chest hurt. His body began to quake so hard the table began to tremble.

Suddenly there was the loud clang of the bunker door being thrown open. Sam jumped, scrambling for his gun. His reflexes were sluggish but still faster than what it had taken to put down more than one monster. He edged his way toward the stairs, his gun raised, and sweat beading his upper lip. _Who or what had breached the bunker defenses? More Men or Women of Letters?_

Slowly, slim legs sliding under a tight-fitting black dress slinked into view. The woman descending navigated the narrow steps, confidently and gracefully wearing stylish three inches heels.

Sam’s breath hitched.

The woman came into view. There was no mistaking the long tresses that fell down her back and shoulders, the color of embers from a funeral pyre, or the arched brow that was as pointed as any dagger.

“Rowena?” Sam asked his confusion and wariness obvious as he kept his gun fixed on her. “How? Wha-”

  
“‘Allo, Sam, love,” Rowena smiled waving her hand as if shooing away an annoying fly. “Please, yer locks and wards are child’s play. Don’t forget, I’ve read the book of the Damned.”

Sam took a deep breath and tilted his head. As always when it came to the Scottish witch, he was never sure quite whether to shoot her or offer her cup of tea. “What are you doing here?” he asked, still aiming his gun.

She smiled at him for a moment then the amusement seemed to bleed from her face as she studied him. “Ya look like hell, Sam,” she said narrowing her eyes. “Have ya gotten any sleep?”

“Rowena!” Sam snapped.

Pursing her lips and nodding slightly, she reached for the handbag hanging from the crook of her elbow.

Sam adjusted his hold on his gun, a silent warning.

She paused and returned her own muted threat, arching her brow a little higher and sharpening the point.  Then she smiled as she slowly opened the bag. “I’m delivering a message...I think.”

“A message?” Sam lowered the gun a fraction.

“Or maybe part of a bedtime story,” Rowena said as she extracted a folded sheet from her purse as she finished descending the steps to make her way toward Sam. “I’m not entirely sure which. All I know, was I as at this lovely little hotel restaurant ready to literally charm this very wealthy man into paying not only for my drinks but for the penthouse suite and instead of finding a hex bag in my purse I found this.”

Sam’s arms were numb and there was a cold twist in his stomach. He lowered his gun, his eyes locked on the piece of paper in Rowena’s hands. It was familiar, too familiar. Forcing air into his lungs he reached for it with his free hand.

Without a word, the witch handed it to him. Her eyes watching him carefully.

Turning back toward the table, Sam unfolded the paper and began reading.

 

_He looked around. He was no longer in the garden. In fact, there wasn’t much vegetation around at all. However, there were large rectangular shapes squatting motionless nearby. They were haphazardly arranged and yet there was something oddly familiar about them and the pattern._

_Frowning, Dean moved cautiously towards one of the shapes to get a better look. It was a car, an old car. An Oldsmobile? 1983? Swirling around slowly took studied the area again. He was surrounded by cars. Junkers._

_Something twisted in his gut. No! It can’t be. It had been years, but once recognition had begun to set in, the details fell into place. He knew where he was, but it was impossible._

_Spinning around, he took off at a run weaving his way around the old cars with unwavering certainty until he skidded to a halt in front of an old house in bad need of paint job and a new roof. Tears blurred his vision. This had burned down...years ago._

_“Bobby! Bobby!” Dean yelled rushing forward and up the steps. He barely paused to open the door, bursting his way into the house. “BOBBY!”_

 

“Dean!” The gun fell out of Sam’s hand and landed on the table with a heavy thud and he nearly followed.  His vision blurred and tears began to slide down his cheek. “Dean,” he sobbed his in a broken whisper.

“Sam?” Rowena called softly from behind him.

He shook his head. He couldn’t face her. That would require speaking and he had no words other than his brother’s name.

He could hear her move closer, cautiously as if he were animal caught in a trap. Perhaps he was. The paper shook in his hand and his breath rattled in his throat, ragged sobs.

“What does it mean?” she asked, the gentle lilt of her voice flowing over him like the tears still running down his cheeks.

He turned and looked at her, blinking to clear his vision. He couldn’t see any guile or deceit in her gaze, only curiosity, and concern. He leaned on the table, gathering strength from it and forced himself to reply. “I...I don’t know. It’s a message...from God...Chuck, I think... Crowley had one too.”

“Fergus?” Rowena asked. “He was here. He had one of these notes too?”

“Similar,” Sam said pointing to the sheet Crowley had delivered. “Found it in his pocket.”

“May I? Rowena asked as she reached for it.

Sam nodded as he clenched the one she’d brought. He began reading it again, forcing back the emotional shock, trying to look at it as another clue or puzzle piece. _Another part of the hunt._

He scanned the lines. _Bobby’s_. It didn’t make sense. Bobby’s was long gone. Was Chuck trying to let Sam know that Dean was in heaven? Was the Almighty trying to let Sam know he’d vetoed Billy? Had the Winchester’s earned one more pass?

Yet, if that was the case, why had Chuck sent Crowley the first message? Was that just to save Sam?

“Who’s Bobby?” Rowena asked interrupting Sam’s thoughts.

He let out a deep breath and looked toward the witch. She’d read the paper from her purse. _Of course, she had._

“He...he was like another father to Dean and I. What our Dad didn’t teach us about hunting, Bobby did. But more than that...he..”

Sam shook his head. How could he explain to her about Bobby, what the old hunter had mean to him and Dean?

“He was family.”

“And I take it his dead?” Rowena pressed.

Sam nodded. Even after these few years, the loss felt raw and fresh. “Uh, yeah.”

“So...you think that this might be -”

“I don’t know _what_ to think?”

She stepped closer to Sam, leaning into his personal space and craning her neck up to meet his eyes. Her magic and power always made her seem taller, but she really was a deceptively tiny and petite woman. “Why do you believe these notes are from...Chuck?”

“When we first met...him,” it’s still a struggle for Sam to think that Chuck and God are synonymous, “he was just a pulp fiction writer that wrote about Dean and I.”

A smile tugged across Sam’s face. “Not even a very good one.”

“So he sent Fergus with a warning for you?” Rowena suddenly looks around. “Where is the little bastard anway?”

“Mogadishu...I think,” Sam said brushing his fingertips across his forehead.

“Sam? How long has it been since you slept?” Rowena looked back at him. 

“Before the attack on Amara? The first one?” Sam was only guessing. In truth, he really couldn’t remember. He glanced at the sheet in his hand again. He couldn't help but think there’s something more to it. There’s a clue there. _Bobby’s, or what’s left of it, Maybe  that’s where I should go._

Putting down the paper he took a deep breath and straightened to his full height. He’d pack light. He could be at what was left of the junkyard in a few hours. Taking a step, the world wobbled.

A hand grabbed hold of his elbow, giving him sudden support. He glanced down, surprised to see Rowena.

“Sam, dear, where do ya think you are going?”

“South Dakota, near Sioux Falls,” Sam said gently untangling his arm from Rowena’s grasp.

“Do you think that’s really a good idea?  Shouldn’t ya maybe take a wee bit of a break first?”

“That paper says Dean’s at Bobby’s. Bobby lived in South Dakota, so yeah, I do. Thanks for your concern, Rowena, but I’m fine.” Shooting Rowena a look Dean would have called “Bitch face twenty-four”, Sam started walking away.

“Bloody stubborn fool,” he heard Rowena mutter as she opened her handbag.

Sam felt a puff at the back of his neck, and a tickling sensation, like snow settling in his hair and on his shoulders. Frowning he turned back toward Rowena.

She had a  little vial of blue powder in one hand and the residue of it in the palm of her other.  Shrugging her shoulders she shouted, “Et tu dormies.”

Sam would have widen his eyes, but he suddenly felt too tired to keep them open. He swayed on his feet for a moment before they suddenly gave out from underneath him as he dropped to the floor. He tried to force himself up, but the most he could do is pry his eyes open long enough to watch Rowena slink her way to him.

“Oh, Sam,” Rowena said crouching over him and softly running her fingers through his hair. “Didn’t this Bobby ever teach ya not to turn yer back on a witch?”

 _He did._ Sam could almost hear Bobby call him “idjit” as the world went dark around him.

 

***

Dean sat behind Bobby’s desk, a half dozen books spread out in front of him. They might have some references on dimensional magic, but he wasn’t sure. Dean was having trouble concentrating. Words blurred together, and paragraphs he’d read multiple times seemed incomprehensible.

While he was no longer distracted by the pain of broken ribs, his head still hurt. It was like someone was pounding _it_ with a crowbar. _It’s the least of what I deserve._ Chuck, he needed a drink!

He took a deep breath reached for one of the books he hadn’t opened yet. He inhaled sharply. His hand was shaking, like the first time he salted and burned a pile of bones when he was six. Swallowing he made a fist, clenching it tight, and holding it for several long minutes.

Slowly he exhaled as he uncurled his fingers. His hand was steady. _Good. Okay._ He pulled his hand back and rubbed it down his face. It was slick with sweat. Dean shook his head. When had it gotten so hot?

“Okay, so no booze, but there’s gotta be some coffee.” He pushed away from the desk, grabbed two of the books, and headed for the kitchen. He had to keep busy. He had to keep researching.

Dean excelled at repressing. It was practically an Olympic sport for him. Yet, he might not even qualify for a medal round this time. He was pushing back against the memories of what he’d done to Cas. He didn’t want them. They were like oil that oozed between the cracks of every brick in the mental walls and doors he built to block them out.

Now, here, he was faced with Castiel. He was sober and defenseless. Dean could feel the memories rising up inside of him like a tsunami, readying to crash over him and washing away what was left of his sanity.

 _Cas!_ Dean dropped the books on the counter and gripped the edge of the sink. The angel had healed Dean many times in the past, but never as he’d done hours earlier. Unconsciously, Dean slid a hand to his side, resting atop his restored ribs.  Cas had knitted him together alright, and it had _hurt!_

Dean closed his eyes. The angel’s words thrumming in his head with the pounding of the crowbar, _You no longer dictate how or when I use my grace. If I choose to heal you, Dean Winchester, then I will knit the fabric of your being together as easily as I can rip it apart...I do not serve you, Dean. I do not serve my Father. Make no mistake, I am in control._

When had Cas ever sounded like that? Behaved like that? _When he’d played god._ More unwanted memories came to Dean’s mine. He remembered how he’d let the newly rebelled and fallen angel down. Castiel had become someone, _something_ , Dean hadn’t recognized. The angel had committed atrocities under the sway and overwhelming power of the Leviathans.

Yet, somehow, Dean and Cas had come through it. Underneath every mistake, they each had made they’d forgiven each other. But this time?

Dean opened his eyes. Stumbling he reached for the coffee pot. His hands were shaking again. This time, Dean had made this Castiel. Dean was the one who’d corrupted Castiel.

 _Maybe it’s best that’s it’s just he and I in this little universe for two._ Somehow Dean managed to get the coffee pot under the faucet and turned the handle for cold water. _I’m the only one here for Cas to hurt this time and I deserve it._

Still, it didn’t mean Dean wasn’t scared. He watched the pot fill with water. It would be stupid not to be frightened. Castiel had the power to do what he said, make and unmake Dean. He’d literally put Dean back together again after being dead for months.

Castiel could make their pocket universe a hell dimension and while maybe that’s what Dean deserved, it didn’t mean he welcomed it.  Dean shut the water off. He set the pot down and grabbed the coffee filters.

_And what about Cas? What would it do to him?_

Coffee grounds sprinkled across the counter as Dean tried to fill the coffee maker. Maybe he should try and eat something too.

After flipping the switch on the Mr. Coffee, Dean turned toward the refrigerator. His legs felt like noodles as he crossed the kitchen.

Dean knew Cas. Whatever he did, no matter how justified, he’d grow to regret it in the end. Castiel was good. Too good for even Heaven. _He talks to bees!_ Castiel was not a monster and doing monstrous things would diminish him.

 _NO!_ Dean couldn’t let that happen. Castiel had been the only light, outside of Sam, Dean had ever really known. Cas had been more than his friend. He’d been hope, laughter, and something more. He’d been emotions and a dream, Dean had never dared give voice to but had kept close to his heart. They had been precious and the few things he’d ever felt that were truly pure and untouched.

Groaning, Dean latched onto the refrigerator and held on to it for support. _I ruined him._ Dean leaned his forehead against the freezer door. He could hear the staccato drip of the coffee and smell the cheap roast of Eight O’Clock coffee.

The demon had taken the secret dreams and desires Dean hid and used them to utterly violate Castiel. _And if he...if Cas…_

Dean glanced down to his ribs. If Cas became as hurtful and twisted as Dean deserved, sought retribution, how much more corrupted would he be? Despair and defeat welled up inside Dean. He was tired. He was so Chuck damned tired!

It would be so easy to just sag to the floor, lay there, and not move. Let Castiel, Amara, Chuck, Billie...whomever or whatever make the next call. Dean just wanted to quit.

He wanted a drink!

Yet, he couldn’t have any of those things. He took a step back and yanked the door open. The smell of cold cuts and cheese hit him. Dean’s stomach twisted and lurched. He quickly slammed the door shut and turned back toward the sink.

“Just coffee then.” His trek back across the kitchen was no steadier than the first time. However, he was able to pour a cup of joe without spilling it, so that was a win. Grabbing the books and the mug, he sat down at the kitchen table.

He opened the first book. If there wasn’t any booze, there at least had to be a clue on how to get out of here. Chuck owed him that.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Et tu dormies = You go to sleep


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, would have posted this sooner but went to see Captain Marvel (is it wrong I want a Flerken?). Anyway, this is a long one and high on the angst meter. Please, please, if you enjoy - leave me a trail of **kudos or comments** , they are my addiction. 
> 
> Also, feel free to rec to those who you think might like.
> 
> This chapter is unbetaed

Castiel stood outside Bobby’s house staring at the back door.  He’d been standing there for three hours, forty-two minutes, and fifty-two point nine seconds. In the span of his existence it barely registered as any time and all, and yet it was a lifetime. It was an eternity of memories on repeat. 

Angels didn’t sweat, and yet Castiel’s palms were damp. They didn’t get thirsty, but his mouth was dry. He would fly away, but where was there to go? He was trapped again, pinned against a hood, hanging from a pipe, and encircled by flames. 

Tremors rippled under his skin as if his flesh were haunted by phantoms pains and ghosts of pleasure. Castiel closed his eyes. He could never be sure what was worse, the searing agony of his flesh being torn, whipped and burned or the shaking bliss as pleasure was pulled from his body one stroke, touch, and kiss at a time.

 

_ Some part of Castiel’s brain tried for rational thought, but it was like a swimmer going against a riptide. The waves of pleasure crashed over him, drowning out his mind. Desperately he sought for something to cling too. He was rock hard now, he ached and yet he didn’t. His nerves sang and all he wanted was more. _

_ Finally, he began to rock back into Dean, chasing that sensation, clinging to the dizzying jolts rocketing through him. Castiel was rewarded. “Dean!” The angel cried as the Winchester’s tongue slipped inside him. _

 

Castiel swore in Enochian and curled his hands into fists, driving his nails into his palms. He didn’t want to remember those moments of forced gratification. They were no fewer violations then the ones that had left him battered and raw. Yet, somehow they had stripped him barer. They had robbed more from himself, tainted him, and made deeper fissures into his being than the violent attacks. 

He opened his eyes and focused. If he had to remember he wanted the torment.

 

_ Castiel’s world exploded into a haze of searing pain. The air whistled and the resulting cracks across his skin were like nothing the ones before. He screamed so loud, he almost wondered if he was using his true voice. Incoherent words babbled out of him as the blistering agony peppered not only down his back but his buttocks as well. _

_ When they began to flash across the back of his thighs he shrieked but could not jerk away. His legs had long given out, and all he could do was hang as blood ran down his arms from this torn wrists. Still, they did not stop until he began to wonder if they ever would. _

 

The tremors turned into shudders and Castiel felt his knees give under the sudden rush of fear that swept through him. He didn’t just remember the physical excruciation but the mental anguish as well. 

Then, like a Kansas storm born of colliding fronts, the terror whipped around into anger. He was an angel of the Lord! He had fought the battles of Perdition. He’d rebelled against the Hosts of Heaven and he’d defied the Morningstar himself to deter the Apocalypse.

There should be no place in him for fear!  _ Not from him! _ Green eyes bled to black. One image of Dean overlaid another. 

The ground was hard and unyielding under Castiel. He was on his knees staring at the door. He wanted to scream, shout in his true voice, and rip asunder every construct of this dimension. 

_ Why couldn’t I have been left in the Void?  _  Shaking, Castiel forced himself to his feet. He had not asked to be here or wanted it. Yet, he here was and like the bunker there was no escape. 

However, unlike the bunker, Castiel had his grace. He was restored to his full glory and Dean had nothing, not even Sam, to stand between him and Castiel’s celestial wrath. 

So why was he standing immobile outside Bobby’s house held hostage to his memories? What reason did he have to fear Dean? If anyone should be cowed, unable to take action, it should be Castiel. He wasn’t a servant to stand outside waiting for his master’s call. 

The angel stood still no longer. He moved forward, yanked the door open, and strode into the kitchen. It was time to make clear to the hunter that Castiel was not here to attend to him. 

Visions of Dean flashed through Castiel’s consciousness, memories of the bunker and before. Snippets of images from Dean driving the Impala, slamming his fist into Castiel’s jaw, slow sipping a beer, to clasping a hand on Castiel shoulder all reminded the angel of the maelstrom of motion that was Dean.

Castiel curled his hands into fists reading himself for whatever came next and then swiftly stuttered to a halt. Dean was sitting passively at the table. He was a still and quiet figure. In front of him were a couple of large dusty books. A mustard yellow coffee mug, that had “I’m a fucking ray of sunshine” written across it, was raised halfway to his mouth. 

Dean froze at Castiel’s abrupt entrance. His gaze locked on to the angel’s. His body tensed as if it didn’t know whether to fight, flee, or remain perfectly still. Then slowly, his hand shaking slightly, he lowered the mug and set it on the table. “Cas...tiel?”

The angel narrowed his eyes and noted Dean’s stumble. He stepped further into the kitchen, letting the door swing shut behind him. He scanned the area. While he was still more powerful than Dean, the hunter wasn’t without his tricks. Castiel remembered all too well Dean’s familiarity with angel wards.

Dean didn’t move. He sat immobile, watching Castiel.

“What are you doing?” the angel finally asked, his quick survey complete. 

“Uh...research.” Dean’s reply was hesitant as if he was choosing his words carefully. “I figure Bobby’s gotta have something on custom fit universes.”

Castiel tilted his head. As he listened to Dean, he observed him closely.  _ Heart rate is elevated. Dark circles under his eyes.  _  Exhaustion? Fear? 

“I doubt you will find anything of use.” Castiel began slowly circling his way around the kitchen.  _ Was this a trick?  _ He kept his gaze locked on Dean. “It takes immense power to create a pocket dimension, something only my father or an archangel could do.”

“Not Amara?” 

The angel paused as a memory slithered forward. 

 

_ You really are a dumb son of a bitch, aren’t you? _

 

Castiel winced.

“Cas-”

“I wonder, Dean if it were not for Sam, could you tell the difference between hoodoo powder and potpourri?” the angel asked as he moved toward the hunter.

Dean flinched and scooted back a little in his chair. 

“Amara is the  _ opposite _ of creation,” Castiel said deliberately as if speaking to someone who did not have a mastery of the language. “So...no it is not likely she could create this ‘custom universe.’”

“I guess Mrs. Cox, my eighth-grade teacher, was wrong,” Dean said forcing a smile. It was the charming grin Castiel had seen him use all to many times to try and con some hapless sheriff or witness on a hunt. “There  _ are _ stupid questions.”

“Apparently.” Dean’s smiles were little more than ash on the wind to Castiel.

“So what, you think Amara brought you back but Chuck made this…” Dean waved his arms around as if the gesture could explain the strange world around them. 

“I believe whatever I  _ think _ is irrelevant,” Castiel stopped his circuit around the kitchen, his face turned slightly away from Dean. “Ostensibly neither is want,  as I did not  _ ask _ to be part of your reward for yet another Apocalypse averted.”

“I didn’t ask for this either, Castiel. Hey, I was expecting to die.” Dean tried to explain.

“Well I was dead, Dean. At peace in the Void.” 

“No-” Castiel heard Dean shuffle to his feet. 

“No?” The angel snapped, turning swiftly to face Dean again. “You do not get to use that word with me.”

Dean stared at him for a moment, the fake grin was gone and his eyes wide. Sweat beaded on his upper lip and his heart beat so face Castiel could almost see the blood pulsing in the hunter’s neck. Dean licked his lips then swiped a shaky hand down his mouth and chin. 

“I just meant, Castiel,” Dean said slowly as if choosing his words carefully. “I didn’t ask for this or you to be here. I’m not going to lie and say I’m not happy...damned happy you’re alive, but you’re wrong-”

“Wrong?” Castiel cut him off again. Why did Dean think his words meant anything? They both knew how well the hunter could twist and turn them. It was time Castiel made his meaning clear to Dean. “Perhaps, I have been too oblique in my language or maybe you just lack the intellectual capacity to understand, but let me to try and be as succinct as I can be.”

Castiel marched forward, stopping at the edge of the table. His blue eyes verging on the edge of blazing with grace. “ _ You _ have no power over me, Dean. That includes telling me ‘no’ or that I am ‘wrong.’ My father may have created a custom made heaven just for you, and my aunt may have given you an angel to serve in it,  but I will not bow to their will or yours.”

He leaned forward, angelic power emanating off of him filling the air in the kitchen with a hint of ozone. “And there is nothing you can do to make me.”

Dean took a step back, bumping into the chair behind him. Once again he raised his hands in surrender. “I get it Cas..stiel. Look, I’m just trying to find us away ho...out of here.”

Castiel arched an eyebrow. Understanding illuminating within him.  _ Dean is afraid of me _ . The realization caused something inside the angel to twist and turn, uncoil. A tension that seemed to be holding pieces of him together eased leaving an almost euphoric excitation behind. He straightened to his full height and took a step back. 

There was power here greater than his grace. It was as primal as the feelings the demon had torn out of him. The fissures inside of Castiel’s lit with a new fire. He knew how to use this power. Dean had always been a good instructor. 

Castiel recalled the last time Dean and he conversed in a kitchen. Then, the hunter had all the power. Dean had been in control. It had been just the beginning of Castiel’s degradations. It had been when he’d first begun to really crack and to understand how powerless he was in face of the demon.  _ Perhaps it is time to reclaim my ascendancy.  _

He stepped around the table toward Dean, glancing at the coffee. “No bacon and eggs?”

Dean blinked at Castiel. He rubbed at the back of his neck a moment and opened his mouth as if to ask a question. Then the color suddenly drained from his face. He swallowed and his chest heaved, as if breathing were a struggle. 

“You remember,” Castiel smiled coldly. 

Dean shook his head. “I’m not hungry.” The words were dragged out as if they were difficult to form, and Dean shook his head.

“I didn’t ask if you were hungry or if you required food.” Castiel’s perfect memory made it easy to recite each syllable back to Dean. As each one rolled over his tongue the angel felt that euphoric sensation grow. It was the absence of fear. Even the incalescence of enmity seemed to cool within him. It verged on intoxicating.

Dean’s hands shook for a moment before curling in on themselves as if he weren’t sure they were his own. Slowly he backed away and around the chair behind him. 

“Castiel don-”

The angel held up a finger in warning, silencing Dean. 

For one long reticent moment, they stared at each other.  It wasn’t so much a battle of wills as if adjusting to new realities. Dean swallowed and turned away, moving toward the refrigerator, his shoulders hunched in resignation. 

Castiel took a seat in the vacated chair and watched as Dean scuffled slowly around the kitchen grabbing what was needed to finish making breakfast. The angel crossed his ankles and relaxed, sinking deeper into the power of the dark rapture uncoiling inside him. 

 

DEAN’S EYES WERE blurry with unshed tears. He wasn’t sure if they were from knotting nausea that kept twisting his stomach at the smell of food, the pain in his head, or the grief squeezing at his heart. He blinked, trying to clear them.

Scrapping the spatula along the bottom of the pan, Dean turned the thick pulpy eggs one last time.  _ Cas! _ Dean managed to keep his thought from being a prayer. How far was the angel going to go to recreate what the demon had done to him? 

Dean tried scooping out some eggs from the pan onto a waiting plate. About half ended up on the stove. He just couldn’t seem to keep control of his hands. This was bad, but he didn’t have time to think about that. 

He grabbed the slices of bacon he’d left cooling on a paper towel and nearly retched. The smell and slick slide of bacon grease on his fingers brought back too much sensory memory. He’d avoided bacon, hell most pork products, since becoming human again. 

Pushing back against the twist in his gut and dragged down memory lane,  he laid two strips next to the fork he had perched along the edge of one plate, and two on the other plate. Then he gave dishing out the last of the eggs a second try. It went a little better. 

Leaning on the counter, he took a moment to take a breath. Dean had faced fear before. Living the life of a hunter, fear and death were old road trip buddies. This was different. Dean wasn’t just afraid of what Castiel would do to him, the hunter was afraid of what this all might do to the angel. 

If anyone knew the weight of taking out one’s pain and abuse on another, it was Dean.  _ I deserve everything I did to him and more, but he’s suffered enough. He’s fallen enough! _ How could Dean help Cas understand that? 

Dean took a deep breath and picked up the plates. Swallowing back the bile trying to climb the back of his throat, he turned around and shuffled his way to the table. He felt Castiel watching him, his gaze weighing him down, making it even more difficult to walk. 

He dropped the plates on the table, the forks nearly popping off to land on the floor, and took a seat. He reached for his cold coffee and stared at Cas. 

“Dig in.” Once again Castiel regurgitated the demon’s words back to Dean. 

Dean shot Castiel a glance.

The angel’s face was cold and resolute. He was almost a stranger. 

Something other than his gut twisted inside of Dean.  _ Cas.  _ Again, it wasn’t a prayer but a cry of silent anguish.

Dean lifted his fork and sank it into a pile of the tiny yellow rubbery mounds. Focusing on just one simple action at a time, he forced a bite into his mouth, chewed, and swallowed. His stomach churned painfully, rejecting the intrusion but Dean persisted. The sooner he was done, the sooner this macabre recreation would be over.

Slowly and silently Dean ate the pain in his stomach and the weight of Cas’s gaze his dinner companions. Each bite was battle of mind over body. When he’d scrapped the last of the eggs up he managed to choke it down with a mouthful of coffee. 

All that was left was the ba- 

 

_ “Bacon grease. Lube. Don’t want to chafe my dick.” _

 

A mix of egg lumps and bile swam at the back of Dean’s throat. He swallowed it back, pushing away from the table. 

“Not going to eat your bacon?” Castiel asked tilting his head. “Did you at least save the grease?”

“Where are you going with this, Cas?” Dean spat out, leaning on the chair on the back of his chair as he climbed to his feet. 

“Where do you think?” The angel growled swiftly rising in one graceful motion and crossing the kitchen to Dean in a blur. Grabbing a hold of Dean by his arms, he lifted the hunter up and shoved him back into a wall. “And it is Castiel, why is that so hard for you to remember?”

Dean tried to suck in the air the angel had just knocked out of him. Pain bloomed along his back but he hadn’t felt or heard anything crack.  _ So no broken ribs this time, just ugly contusions.  _ He raised his hands up and pushed against Castiel’s shoulders, trying to escape from the angel. 

Castiel pressed back. “Going somewhere?”

“Stop. Ple-”

“Are you begging me to stop?” The angel sneered.

“Yes, dammit!” Dean stared into the Castiel’s blazing blue eyes. “This isn’t you, Castiel.”  
“You do not get to define me,” the angel growled pressing into Dean, smashing their bodies together. 

“Maybe not, but we both know this is not who...,” Dean struggled for the words. He couldn’t admit them to himself. How could he say them to Castiel? “You wouldn’t do this if the dem-”

“If the demon had not defiled me? Raped me?” Castiel pressed his face closer to Dean’s until his lips hovered over the hunter’s left ear. “Broken me?”

“You are not broken!” Dean tried again to shove at Castiel. He refused to believe, to concede that his angel, his friend was destroyed. Damaged? Hurt? Yes, but not twisted and fractured into someone Dean didn’t recognize. 

Castiel pulled back a little so he could stare into Dean’s eyes. The angel shifted his body just a little, pressing a leg in between Dean’s forcing them apart. Leisurely, he began to slide it softly against Dean’s groin. “I believe we both know better. Shall I remind you, Dean? Take you through how it was done, step by step?”

_ What the he-? _ For a moment Dean forgot his unsteady hands, the pain his head, and the twist in his gut as all the blood rushed to his dick.  _ Fuck _ .  He sucked in a deep breath and tried to collect himself. He knew exactly where this was going and he had to stop it before it was too late, not for him, but for Cas.

“So what? This is payback? You thinking fucking me is gonna what? Give you some sense of closure?” Dean curled his fingers into Castiel’s shoulders.

“What else are we going to do in your private paradise? Isn’t this what you wanted?” Castiel let go of Dean’s arms. He splayed one hand across Dean’s chest, easily pinning and holding him against the wall while using his other hand to skim under the hunter’s shirt.

Fear and want were battling under Dean’s skin where the angel touched him.  “No, this isn’t what I wanted.”

Castiel stopped the sinful slide along Dean’s hardening shaft and pressed his knee against until it teetered on the edge of pain. He heard the hunter hiss. “What did I say about that word?”

Dean grimaced. The angel recalled everything the demon had said all too well.

“Well I did not want it either, Dean,” Castiel shifted until once again he was forcing the hunter to ride his leg in a teasing caress while the angel trailed fingers along Dean’s stomach. “That did not stop  you from acting out your desires..fantasies.”

Panic threatened to overwhelm Dean like the memories of other fingers, longer and colder, that had once played across his skin.  _ No! _ He pushed back against them, stuffing them back into the box of things he never talked about.

 

“Demons lie,” Dean growled focusing on the now. Yes, the demon had used all of Dean’s hidden feelings and longings against Castiel, but it had twisted and weaponized them in both word and action.

Castiel stilled, his blue eyes locked with Dean’s green. He snarled, “Not that much. Tell me you did not desire me, Dean. Convince me the demon didn’t act on needs and feeling already there?”

“I did not want to hurt you, Castiel. I didn’t want to torture you...to...to..rape you!” The word tore out of Dean, leaving something inside raw and bleeding.

“But you did!” Castiel’s yell belied the gentle teasing touch of his fingers just over Dean’s hip.

“The demon did!” 

“Tell me, Dean were you possessed? Was it another entity inside you?” Castiel snarled in Dean’s face. “I did not see one. I only saw your soul, riddled with corruption.”

Dean wanted to hang his head and cry. Castiel was right. Dean had not been possessed. He could not blame his actions on some supernatural entity taking over his body. Everything that he’d done had been a dark reflection of himself. He had to save Castiel from that same corruption. 

“Castiel, I know you want to hurt me and I deserve it. I know you want to do those same things to me, I did to you...and more. You think it will give you some sort of power..make it better. But it won’t.” Dean pleaded with everything inside of him. “You’re not broken, but if you do this you will be.”

“I am broken, Dean, and you’re the one who shattered me.” Castiel’s free hand began to move again, this time skimming along the edge of Dean’s jeans. The angel’s fingers ghosting over the zipper. “So if I want to use you to cobble myself back together again, I think it only fair.”

Panic began to rise inside of Dean. He was losing. Castiel was going to fall once again because of him. 

“Damnit, Cas! You won’t be cobbling anything together, you’ll only be ripping yourself apart...finishing the demon’s work!”

Castiel grabbed Dean’s balls through his jeans and squeezed until the hunter thought he was going to pass out. “Do not call me that!”

Dean jerked and screamed, using all his strength to try and break free from Castiel’s grip. It was useless. What was a human’s strength against the might of heaven?

Dean sobbed when Castiel finally released his hold. He spent several moments sucking in deep breaths while he tried to feel anything but the crippling pain in his groin. When he could think again, he began pounding on the angel’s shoulders again. Castiel had worked Dean’s jeans open and was reaching to pull his cock free. 

“Castiel. Don’t. Plea-”

“Pleas do not work, you taught me that,” Castiel said his hand sliding beneath Dean’s underwear and wrapping around Dean’s length.

“You know what I didn’t teach you, you son of a bitch?” Dean yelled in a mix of fear, anger, and love. “You pick up that knife, you agree to put someone else on that rack just to stop the pain, then you become the thing that cut into you in the first place!”

Castiel froze, the blue light dimmed from his eyes. He stared at Dean as if he couldn’t quite focus. Then there was the sound of a flock of birds lifting into flight at once. The angel disappeared.

Dean dropped to the floor. He turned on his side and retched. Coffee, eggs, and bile spewed across the floor. 

He wasn’t sure how long his body had been wracked by vomiting. He wasn’t sure how long he laid on the kitchen floor just staring at the mess like it was a metaphor of his life. 

He only knew that at some point he’d managed to get to his feet, do up his pants, and find some paper towels. He’d sopped up the mess with Bounty sheets with a fleeting manic laugh.  _ The quicker picker upper. _ Sammy had always liked those commercials.

Then he’d stumbled into the other room, crashing onto the couch. It smelled musty like old books, oil, and Bobby. Dean turned on his side again. He curled into a fetal position.

Only then did he let the tears fall, soaking the cushion underneath his head. He missed Bobby. He missed Sam. Hell, he missed his old man. He was so tired. 

_ Some fuckin’ paradise, Chuck! _

Dean fell asleep, his head pounding, his heart and balls aching, and craving a drink. 

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok y'all this one isn't long but it is good. You're gonna get some humor and a nice dose of angst. If you enjoy, you know what to do, leave me kudos or comments (yeah I'm shameful about asking for them).
> 
> Unbeataed

“Mogadishu, Fergus? Ach, that denotes a certain lack of creativity,” Rowena said in a lyrical huff that was unique to the Scottish witch.

“And where would you have suggested, mother? Mount Everest?” Crowley drolly replied.

Rowena rolled her eyes. “Please, I would choose somewhere like Kerguelen Island. Thousands of miles away from anywhere, only accessible by ship for days a year, and covered by rain, snow, and sleet 300 of the rest. Now _that_ shows imagination.”

Sam struggled to consciousness. He wasn’t sure if the ongoing argument was real, or just a dream.

“Yeah, well it doesn’t like much of an opportunity for murder, mayhem, and piracy.” Sam heard the sound of ice plummeting into a glass. “All of which would be too good for that Men of Letters cow.”

 _So, not dreaming._  Sam forced his eyes open and took stock of his surroundings. He was on the floor of the bunker near the big table where he’d been researching the note from Crowley before Rowena made herself welcome. Something soft was under his head, turning it slightly he noticed a pillow.

“Men of Letters, bloody cockroaches,” Rowena swore.

“At last, mother, we agree on something,” Crowley said followed by the sound of a glass being filled.

Frowning Sam sat up. A blanket fell away from his shoulders.

“Samuel!” Rowena happily cried. “Sleep well?”

The younger Winchester quickly turned to toward the witch’s cry. She and Crowley were sitting at the far end of the table each a with a glass tumbler filled with a pale amber liquor in front of them and a bottle of scotch to the side.

Recollection and alarm slammed through Sam and he quickly rose. Rowena had hit him with some sort of sleep spell, and now both she and Crowley had run of the Bunker.

“What’s going on?” he growled, casting his eyes around for the demon blade he usually carried.

“Warned you, mum,” Crowley said, raising his glass. “Moose wake up a bit grumpy after a magical Mickey, even if you do tuck them in.”

“Oh, please, Sam was completely knackered and like a wee bairn refused to go down for a nap.” Rowena shrugged. “I just did what any nurturing sou-”  
“Rowena!” Sam barked charging toward the two intruders deciding on the Winchester strategy of leap first and figure out the rest later. “Why are you here?”

“Yer letters, dear?” She said, pointing to two sheets of paper on the table. “You do remember, or did I put too much nightshade in that powder? Are you having memory problems? A bit of amnesia maybe?”

Sam balled his hands into fists. He tried to count to five in his head. He was outgunned facing both King of Hell and his mother, but then again they were facing an angry and grieving Winchester brother.  Still, it didn't do anyone any good if he lost his temper. “There’s nothing wrong with my memory. I want to know what you and Crowley are doing in the bunker.”

“There might be nothing wrong with your recall, but yer still as slow as ever,” Crowley said. “Let’s try again. I’ll go slow and use small words. We are here about the ‘Dear Chuck Are You There It’s Me Sam Winchester’ letters we each received.”

“So what,” Sam shook his head slightly, “you’re both here to what...help?”

“Well, it’s not every day you got a note from Providence in yer clutch,” Rowena replied.

Sam shot a look at Crowley. The demon never did anything that wasn’t self-serving. “Don’t you have a kingdom to run?”

The corner of Crowley’s mouth curled, and he nodded slightly. “Lucifer being out of his cage has created _complications._ Until certain matters are resolved, alliances solidified, deals fina-”

“You need somewhere secure to hide,” Sam snorted then reached over them both to grab the two pieces of paper in questions.

Crowley smiled and drained his drink.

Rowena looked at her son, narrowing her eyes and wrinkling her nose. “What Fergus is trying to say is that, like me, he brings certain skills that can be helpful in deciphering what-”

“No,” Sam said, marching to the other side of the table, the papers clutched in his hand.

“No?” Now it was Sam’s turn to be on the receiving end of Rowena’s disapproving look. “Whatever you two are plotting, whatever _deal_ or power you think you’ll get out of this, it’s not happening. The _only_ thing I care about is Dean and the possibility that he might be out there somewhere. And as far as I’m concerned, you’ve already delayed me…”

Sam paused. He wasn't even certain how long he’d been out.

“And what about Chuck?” Rowena practically purred.

“What about him?”

“Well, he did leave those little clues...messages...whatever they are with Fergus and me when he could have easily have just left them with you in the first place. Doesn’t that indicate that perhaps it might be...oh I don’t know...His will-”

Sam shook his head and laughed, “You think you and Crowley...helping me..is Go...Chuck’s will?”

“Look around, Moose,” Crowley said refilling his glass and looking at the hunter. “Who else do you have?”

It was a fair question that revealed and stark truth that was almost crippling. The breath went out of Sam as if Crowley had punched him. Cas was dead. Bobby was long gone and Dean…

Sam struggled for breath. How had it come to this, that the only two _people_ he had in his corner were Crowley and Rowena?   _Was this Chuck’s message?_

“No one,” Sam admitted. “I have no one.” Then he headed for the stairs.

“And where do you think you are going?” Rowena asked.

“South Dakota.” Sam kept walking. It was the only lead he had.

“Not until you’ve cleaned up. I’m not riding in a car several hundred miles with you smelling like the inside of a boys locker room.”

Sam stopped. He turned and stared at her. “What make-”

“Samuel Winchester, you do not want me to use a spell to make ya take a shower.”

Sam did not want to waste any more time. He had to know one way or another if Dean was at Bobby’s. “If you insist on helping, you could just..I don’t know, teleport us there,” Sam said glowering at Crowley.

“Do I look like a bloody Uber?” Crowley said. “‘Sides, in hiding.”

The hunter crossed his arms. “What about, Mogadishu?”

“That was an emergency.” Crowley shrugged. “Think of me as your, ‘in case of...break glass.’”

“Crowley, when I think of you, I always want to break something.”

The demon grinned. “I do love the way Winchesters sweet talk.”

“Boys,” Rowena interjected sending a pointed look toward Sam. “Thought we were planning a road trip?”

Sam stared at Rowena. Her brow was arched nearly to her hairline. Then he glanced at the floor where he’d woken up a few moments before with a pillow under his head, and blanket tucked around him. Rowena was right; he did not want to know the effects of a spell to compel him to shower.

“Be ready in twenty,” he barked at the witch as he marched past her and headed for his room.

“Fine, that will give me just enough time to pack some sandwiches,” Rowena replied.

 

***

Dean’s eyes snapped open. His heart was pounding at the same rate as the jackhammer in his head. He tried to roll over, but it was as if every muscle in his body had locked into place.

He panicked, causing his heart to beat faster. Was this Castiel? Had the angel returned to punish Dean with a new kind of torture? He tried to call out, but all that escaped was a broken moan as his body twisted and cramped of its own volition.

The pain blinded the older Winchester to time. He wasn’t sure how long he lay on the couch, cinched into a fetal position with his tendons and ligaments waring with each other to curl him ever tighter.

Dean was only aware the battle had stopped when he began to shiver. His body was shuddering so hard his teeth rattled together like a set of maraca rattles from some Carribean street band.  

He concentrated using what little energy he had on uncurling his body and rolling over. _Castiel, stop._ He had to make the angel see this wasn’t the way. _I know I deserve this and more...you have every right, bu-_

Once again, Dean could feel his body seizing. He screamed his world whiting out as if his mind and body were some electrical board whose circuits had overloaded. Dean couldn’t think. He couldn’t breathe. Hell, he wasn’t even sure he was alive.

This time when he came back to himself, he was facedown on the floor in front of the couch, a pool of drool under his open mouth. Dean laid there for a moment, aching and trying to catch his breath. _How long?_ He couldn’t guess whether he’d been out for a few minutes or a few hours. He didn’t even know how he’d wound up on the floor. Had he fallen or had Cas thrown him?

Swallowing, he moved his head to look around. Tears formed in his. _Chuck it hurts!_ Every muscle his neck and shoulder felt strained to the point even the slightest movement felt punishing.  Still, he made himself lift his head and look around the room.

There was no sign of Castiel. _Did he leave?_ Biting back a scream, Dean pushed himself to a seated position leaning against the front of the sofa. He sat there for several long minutes catching his breath and looking for any sign of the angel.

He felt shaky, weak, and scared. How much more could he take? Would Castiel go so far as to kill him? _Why not? He is at full mojo. He could just bring me back again._

Memories of another time when Dean had been at the mercy of another unworldly being who could and did rip him apart only to put him back together again pushed at the back of Dean’s mind. _No!_ Dean silently snarled and pushed back. He wouldn’t, couldn’t go there. _Castiel’s not that far gone._

Dean began to shake again. It wasn’t the searing sensation of his body clenching around itself. He was shivering. Why was it so cold? He wrapped his arms around his chest. If it was this cold, shouldn’t he be able to see his breath?

Narrowing his eyes, Dean watched for any signs of condensed air on exhaling. He saw nothing, but still, his teeth chattered. This didn’t make sense. _Fuck!_ _Can’t the construction crew in my head take five?_ Dean needed to think, but the ache in his body and the pounding pulse in his skull was making it difficult.

Ignoring his protesting muscles, he unwrapped an arm and reached to drag a hand squeeze the back of his neck. He paused as his palm touched the skin at his hairline. It was slick with sweat. Frowning, he reached around and swiped his hand over his face.

 _Flop sweat._ The realization swept through Dean as he pulled back his palm, wet and shiny from wiping across his forehead and mouth. His gut twisted and his hand shook. Then Dean let his head fall back on the couch as he began to laugh.

Dean s cackled not with mirth but at the absurdity of his situation. The nausea, the shakes, and now the seizures all made sense. This wasn’t some torture devised by Castiel. This was something much more straightforward but just as deadly. Dean was in withdrawal.

 _Chuck, you manipulative bastard._ Dean had been without a drink for going on forty-eight hours, and his body was in freefall. Every functioning alcoholic worth their damn knew it was a delicate balance to keep operative while maintaining just the right amount of the sauce to keep from getting frazzed. A seasoned drunk knew what waited for them if they didn’t.

Dean lifted his head, his laughter dying to hiss. He pulled his knees up and stared stupidly at the far wall. He didn’t have many choices. There was no booze here; he’d looked. Hell, he’d been a good little alkie and done that first thing, his body already in the early stages of cold turkey. Alcohol withdrawal was a killer.

At this point he was pretty far gone, and what was next was going to make this seem like a bad flu. _The DTs._ His headaches and seizures were going to get worse.  The sweating would continue as his fever rose and his blood-pressure would get dangerously high.

 _Then on the road to biting it, there will be the hallucinations._ Dean’s heart raced a little faster at the thought of all the memories and feelings he repressed coming out to haunt him.

Dean was trapped in Bobbyland with only one chance, Castiel. The angel could heal him. All Dean had to do was convince him, maybe beg him. Wouldn’t that be a kick in the nuts?

_Hey Cas, sorry about all the rape and torture, Plus, I  know you're pretty pissed that your Old Man trapped your in a private paradise with me, but could you maybe take a moment and help me out with my detox? That would be great. Thanks!_

Dean closed his eyes. This wasn’t right! This wasn’t fucking fair! _Tapestry of life my ass!_ Castiel didn’t deserve this. Asking him to heal Dean, was putting the angel into the very situation he had made clear he did not want. _I do not serve you, Dean. I do not serve my Father._ The words rang clear in Dean’s mind.

Amara said she was giving Dean something he needed. How was any of this that? _What about Cas? What about what he needs?_

Opening his eyes, Dean glanced back toward the kitchen. Castiel was so hurt and angry. The demon had violated more than just his body. Cas deserved some form of retribution, some justice and Dean deserved some kind of punishment for what…

Dean forced memories back and took a deep breath. His shook with agony. Physically and mentally he was battered. He had been for months. _Since remembering what I did._ Why couldn’t Chuck and Amara let him die? Why couldn’t they have left Castiel in peace and let Billie cart Dean off to oblivion? How was this forced Burt and Ernie routine remotely what Dean needed?

Once again, Dean tilted his head back. He looked up at the water stained and peeling ceiling. “Well fuck you, Chuck. And you too, Amara.”

No. He was Dean Winchester. He had found a way to subvert the apocalypse.  Sam and him had been finding ways to thwart the plans of gods and monsters all their lives. He was going to take a different path, one where Castiel got the justice he deserved without becoming a monster himself. Dean was going to suffer the way he should and most of all they would each get their own private peace, if not in the void or oblivion, then in Bobbyland.

Using the last of his reserves, and using the couch for leverage, Dean got to his feet. He knew how to give Chuck and Amara the finger; all he had to do was get to the basement.

  



	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so on the day the guys announce season 15 will be the last, I had to do something with my angst. I'm just going to have to comfort myself with writing. Anyway, tomorrow I get my taxes done which is a big stressor for me so shameful plea for **Kudos and comments**.
> 
> Anyway, the story moves along. 
> 
> unbetaed

Castiel flew from one edge of the pocket dimension to the next, fluttering and bouncing off the invisible boundary like a firefly trapped in a mason jar. There was no grand design or strategy to his movement, just a primal instinct to flee. He needed to escape from this place, his memories, his thoughts, and the chaotic emotions which were overwhelming his reason and being.

 _Dean._ A shudder went through Castiel. For once, his reaction wasn’t over what the hunter had done but rather what the angel had done. _Almost done._

Suddenly Castiel could feel the heat of Dean’s skin against his fingers and he could smell the hunter’s sweat. The sound of Dean's sobs rang in the angel's ears.  These new memories burned into him, ones where he had all the power and Dean was his to use.

Raw and unfettered emotions collided inside Castiel creating a primordial burst of energy. It erupted from him in a wail of anguish and rage, propelling him as high as the edge of this little world allow. Castiel rushed blindly toward the border, straining his wings to reach maximum velocity and lift.

An ethereal blue wave of immolated graced exploded across the horizon as Castiel slammed into the dimension’s boundary. The reverberating salvo of booming thunder followed as Castiel’s being clashed with the edge of his Father’s immutable confines stunning the angel and sending him plummeting back toward the ground.

For a moment he almost felt at peace as he fell stunned and unchecked. There was tranquility in the uncontrolled descent. Ironically it reminded him of when he served heaven without question and in complete obedience. There was nothing to worry about, he wasn’t in control and therefore could not affect the outcome.

Yet, Castiel had fallen. He had rebelled and abetted the Winchester’s every move against heaven and hell. So he knew any tranquility was an illusion. _Falling does not come without a price. Without pa-_

Castiel’s vessel erupted in agony as he slammed into the ground. Dirt and dust flew up around him in a cloud as small shockwaves rippled out from under him. He lay there unable to move as his weakened grace began the slow process to restore him.

It would take time, both because his vessel was so badly damaged and because his grace would need to replenish itself. He had needlessly expended it in his futile flight. All he could do was lie there and think. Once again he was trapped, this time with his thoughts and memories. Yet, there was clarity in his pain.

A small sound pushed passed his shattered ribcage, a cruel parody of a laugh. Wasn’t that something the demon had said?

_“See you think, I fell because I wanted the pain to stop. That’s just the story I tell myself. But the truth, Cas? The reason why I became his star pupil? It’s because I found the purity in pain.”_

Cas remembered how the demon had first taught him that lesson, carving an angelic ward into his very skin while being bound by the grace trapping cuffs. It had been a pain, unlike anything the angel had every known as he’d both try to flee and remain anchored to his vessel at the same time.

That had been in the early stages of the demon’s progressive acts of torture and degradation designed to break the angel. _Why?_   Tears formed in the corner of Castiel’s eyes, he already knew the answer.

It wanted to destroy Castiel’s devotion to Dean, break their bond. It had used everything between them, good and bad, toward that end. Castiel shook, helpless to remember as he lay healing on the ground.

_“I’m not your Dean. I may sound, taste, smell, look, and even feel like him, Cas but I’m not him. I’m going to keep breaking you down and proving it to you over and over again you dumb son of a bitch until you finally believe me.”_

That was only the first time the demon had said what it wanted from Castiel, but it wasn’t the last.

_“However, unlike your Dean, I’m not afraid to want you, Cas. I don’t understand your self-sacrifice, but I can appreciate the way you suffer for it. You’re so loyal and beautiful. He doesn’t deserve you.”_

_The angel felt the demon’s grip on his hips, then its cockhead pressed into him. Castiel didn’t want to be here anymore. He thought dimly of the twilight forest of Purgatory as he was breached. The burn of being penetrated was nothing to what he had endured earlier._

_“As long as you are willing to suffer for him, I will let you. I will take it. I will take you,” it began to rut inside of Castiel, his body on fire where the demon’s body pressed against his. “I will take all of you, over and over again until there’s nothing left, especially your love for him .”_

The angel remembered what it said while it began to rape him after whipping him nearly insensate while hanging in one of the bunker’s bathrooms. It was the last thing Castiel had heard before his mind had slipped away into its own world for a while.

Castiel closed his eyes, trying to force the images and words from his mind. However, it only seemed to bring more. He recalled his final submission to the demon.   _In order to protect Claire._ It was a choice that had meant he would acquiesce to the demon’s plans to utterly corrupt Sam by allowing himself to be violated by the younger Winchester who had become so lost in the throes of his demon blood addiction he would do it if it was the price for Dean’s blood.

At that moment as he lain on Dean’s bed naked, abused, and weeping, he’d lost and been broken. He’d fought and sacrificed so much to protect Sam and Dean to keep the demon from doing something Dean could never come back from. Yet, the demon had won and he’d known it too.

_“Shush.” The demon said before leaning down and licking at one of the wet trails. “There’s nothing to worry about. We both know there’s no coming back from that, neither Sam nor Dean would want to even if they could. After that, sky’s the limit. You probably wouldn’t even care if I fucked Sam.”_

It didn’t matter that in the end, Sam had been smarter than the demon. While it was of consequence to the world and the younger Winchester that they were able to restore Dean, it had no bearing on Castiel.

_“Cas...you dumb son of a bitch.”_

Those were the first words Dean had said to Castiel proving the demon was right. Dean couldn’t forgive the angel for what he’d done. _The demon hadn’t lied and if it hadn’t lied about that-_

Castiel forced his healing hands into fists as his body shook. He had offered up himself to the demon to protect Sam, but ultimately to save Dean.  Since the moment the angel had gripped the hunter’s soul tight in Perdition, Castiel had always suffered to save Dean. His was the one soul the angel loved above all others. Castiel had followed wherever Dean led, rebelling against heaven for him because he’d trusted him. _He betrayed that trust._

Maybe, Castiel could never think it or admit it, but deep down he’d always believed Dean would forgive him for the things the angel had done to save him. The hunter would forgive Castiel for his weakness, but Dean hadn’t.

A hot rush of emotion swept through the healing angel that had nothing to do with divinity. Castiel had never known how love could turn to hate and how quickly. Yet, between one word and the next what he’d felt for the older Winchester brother had transformed. This new emotion had scared Castiel almost as much as the self-loathing that chased after it.

Dean and the demon had become one. They both needed to be punished and Castiel had so nearly done it. He’d played and toyed with Dean the same way the demon had with him. Castiel had put his hands on Dean, touching him and preparing to violate him.

Gasping, Castiel forced his aching vessel to a seated position. Only Dean’s words had stopped the angel.

_“You know what I didn’t teach you, you son of a bitch? You pick up that knife, you agree to put someone else on that rack just to stop the pain, then you become the thing that cut into you in the first place!”_

Were those the desperate words of the demon trying to save itself? Castiel had to wonder. Certainly, the demon knew enough about the psychology of torture and the cycle of abuse. Yet, it seemed as if Dean was trying to convey something more in the way he had said them, screamed them at Castiel. There had been something almost familiar in Dean's cry, like the phantom ache of an amputated limb.

“Either way, he is correct,” Castiel muttered aloud. He hated to admit it but it was the truth. In the end, raping Dean would have only done greater damage to the angel, not help him.

Groaning, Castiel forced himself to his feet. His vessel had healed enough to stand. He looked out across the deceptive horizon, one that promised unlimited possibilities but in reality, offered a narrow avenue of existence.

He hadn’t wanted help. He’d wanted an escape, freedom from the memories and the emotions. Castiel had welcomed his death which had been denied him. This place, this recreation of Bobby’s had not been built for his benefit, but Dean’s.

Perhaps then it was time for Castiel to consider what he wished now. Rebelling wasn’t enough if he did not know what it was that he desired. _And maybe that is not to be restored._

The thought slid across his mind like a cloud passing over the sun. Realistically, could he truly ever be made whole again? The things that had been done to him could not be undone.

Maybe the darker path was the better avenue. He was already broken, had lost Dean’s affection and trust leaving the angel cold. He was unforgiven, cast out.

“If I have lost the light and warmth of adoration, why should I not then burn with the fire of enmity? Who is here to judge me?” Castiel looked up as if challenging something beyond the sky for an answer.

Castiel could show Dean what it meant to fall from grace, to lose celestial favor. The hunter would not know which was worse, hell or this pocket dimension with Castiel.

A feeling of strength, that had nothing to do with the regenerative power of his grace, surged through the angel. He _could_ do this. How he treated Dean was _Castiel’s_ choice, not his Father’s and least of all the hunter’s.

He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. Castiel had rebuilt Dean body and soul when he’d rescued him from hell, the angel could just as easily unmake him. Did he want to was the question? Maybe that was the singular underlying query, past the memories and anger, what did Castiel want?

“If I am to fall again, it will not be without contemplation,” he said. Rebelling against heaven had not been a whim. He would not cosign himself to further corruption with any less deliberation.

He folded his wings back and began to walk. Instead of pushing away the memories from the bunker, he let them flow over him. He replayed the demon’s words and the false choices it had given Castiel. Moment by moment he cataloged his pains, physical and emotional.

Castiel circled the circumference of the dimension several times, lost in his own circumspection.  He measured the weight of his anger and desire for retribution against any affections or duties that might restrain him, such as Sam. They all seemed so distant and remote, cut off as the angel was. Still, he did give them some thought.

 _CAS!_ The prayer pierced him like an angel blade dropping Castiel to his knees. He had stopped listening to Dean’s prayers long before the hunter had stopped making them. Yet, now Dean was crying out to Castiel with a level of anguish the angel hadn’t felt since Sam Winchester had become Lucifer’s vessel. _Stop! Don’t! Cas!_

Castiel’s eyes flashed blue. Dean had no right to call out to him! _Even less liberty to command me._ Whatever game Dean was playing, he would regret involving the angel.

The angel’s wings snapped open. Then with a quick flutter, he was gone in search of Dean.

 

***

 

“I’m going to kill you!” Dean snarled trying to get to his feet. The cramping pain in his gut doubled him over again, driving him back to his knees.

“You can’t kill me,” the demon said before swiping its hand lasciviously down Castiel’s bleeding chest to his groin. The demon stood behind the angel who hung limp and barely conscious from the showerhead. “I _am_ you.”

Dean shook his head. “We’re nothing alike.”

“Kid yourself all you want, Deano,” the demon said wrapping its hand around the angel’s flaccid cock before slowly stroking it while the angel whimpered. “I’m who you were and I’m who you’re gonna be again.”

“Don’t!” Dean cried this time scrambling forward on his hands and knees. “Stop!”

“Okay, Deano, I won’t,” the demon laughed intensifying its caresses along Castiel’s shaft. It licked the angel’s ear then said, “Hear that, Cas? Dean said don’t stop. Wanna show him what a good little slut you are? How you cum for-”

“CAS!” Dean fell, reaching for the angel, the cramps spreading through his body. “Don’t lis...listen to him. Look a...look at me buddy-”

The demon used its other hand to lift Castiel’s head. The angel's eyes were glazed from pain and unfocused. “Yes, Cas, look at him! This is your Righteous Man? This is who you rebelled against heaven for? He’s a worm, Castiel. He’s weak. Where is he in your time of need? On the floor, sniveling and mewling.”

 _Cas._ Dean prayed, staring at his angel. _I’m so sorry._

“Is he praying to you, Cas?” the demon laughed its obscene handjob beginning to have an effect on the angel. “Oh, Deano, you should see how I can get this angel here to cry unto me. It’s sweeter than pie.”

“Don’t listen to him, Cas.” Dean rolled back up to his knees. “This is not your fault! Do you hear-”

“Will you quit you’re whining? You sound like Sam.” The demon rolled its eyes before suddenly smiling. “Hey, when I’m finished jerking off Feathers here, let's say we visit Baby Brother?”

Dean got his feet under him and managed to stand. His body shook with the effort.

“Look at that, Cas. Mention Samantha and suddenly, Deano’s on his feet.” The demon pumped the angel’s engorged cock. “Don’t worry, baby. I still love you.”

Castiel moaned and tried pulling away from the demon. It held him fast, grinding its body against him as it milked the head of the angel’s cock toward the inevitable.

“NO!” Dean yelled charging forward with the last of his energy. He sailed right through the angel and the demon as they dissappeared into a concrete wall smacking his head against it.

Dean’s world spun. He couldn’t focus. Pain exploded along his butt. He blinked. He was on the floor again. Had he fallen?

“Get up boy!” A voice barked from behind him, one that brooked no argument.

It was instinct alone, one born of years listening and obeying that voice that got Dean moving. He used the wall for support and got to his feet and turned around.

John Winchester pinched the bridge of his nose and shook his head. He sighed, then looked at Dean. “I thought I raised you better than this, Dean. Thought I _taught_ you better than this.”

“Sir...Dad,” Dean started to explain, tears forming in his eyes. “I-”

John took a step forward and placed a hand on Dean’s shoulder. “Son, it’s my fault. I expected too much from you. Should have left it to somebody else to deal with Sam-”

“Dad, no!” Dean shook his head. “Sam’s okay. He’s-”

“Dean, if Sam had died then none of this ever would have happened. You wouldn’t have gone to hell and well...you broke.”

The tears were freely flowing. “I know, sir. I’m sorry, but Sammy...he’s good, Dad. The best of us. You just didn’t get to see.”

“So he’s worth more than that angel? You gonna trade Sam for him?”

Dean widened his eyes. He wanted to take a step back, but even if he had the strength to move there was no place for him to go. What was his father asking? _Cas for Sam?_ “No, sir, that’s not what I meant.”

“Well, Dean,” John said stepping closer until his body was nearly pressing into his son’s. “Give me another option.”

“Dad?” Dean stared at his father in confusion. What other option?

John smiled, his eyes shifting to yellow. “C’mon, Deano. Heard how easily you gave it up downstairs. Give the old man the respect and _love_ he deserves and may I’ll forget all about Sammy and your pet angel.”

Revulsion and horror shot through Dean as he shoved at the thing that wore his father. “Get off me!”

“Rather get off on you,” John Winchester laughed before sucker punching his son.

Pain burst through Dean’s abdomen and he doubled over.  He didn’t have time to react before another blow landed at the small of his back, dropping him to the floor. Then Dean’s world bled into a series of agonizing moments as his father circled him like a shark kicking him as he went.

“What do you say, Deano? Give daddy some sugar?”

Through a haze of misery, Dean stared up at his dad. “Go back to hell.”

“I’m so disappointed in you, boy. I thought you were smarter than this,” John Winchester said crouching down and grabbing the back of Dean’s head. “We’re already there.”

 

CASTIEL HAD SEARCHED the logical places in Bobby’s for Dean. The Winchester wasn’t in the den, upstairs, or in the kitchen. _Where is he?_

Dean’s prayers hadn’t ceased. In fact, they had become more urgent, but less coherent to the point the angel wasn’t sure the hunter even realized he was praying.  What was going on? Castiel’s eyes blazed now, not with anger, but with a growing sense of alarm.

Whatever issues he had with Dean, he knew the hunter was more than capable of taking care of himself. There were few things that could get the better of Dean Winchester. Yet, clearly, the hunter was in a situation that was beyond him, one that might very well pose a threat to Castiel.

“Dean!” Castiel yelled vainly hoping for an answer. He listened intently, straining his awareness for any signs of the Winchester brother.

For a moment he heard nothing, then suddenly he was cognizant of a muffled noise from underneath the floors. Castiel frowned. It was a muted sound as if buried. Then his eyes flared as understanding rushed through him.

He fluttered his wings and appeared in Bobby’s basement. “Dean!”

The answering moan was loud and clear.  Castiel rushed forward and then came to an abrupt halt as angelic wards flared all around him. On the other side of them was the open door Bobby’s panic room.

Lying on the floor inside the room was Dean. He was curled on his side as if trying to avoid unseen blows. He was pale and his shirt clung to his skin, wet with perspiration. There was a large bruising bump forming on his forehead. He let out another moan.

What had happened? Had something attacked Dean, sending him to the panic room for refuge?  Castiel glanced around looking for signs a struggle.

“NO!” the Winchester brother suddenly yelled.

Castiel focused his attention back on the hunter. He couldn’t see a threat, however, the angel was beginning to believe that whatever was menacing the hunter was in his mind.  “Dean, wake up.”

A tremor went through the hunter, but the didn’t respond.

Glaring at the wards holding him back, Castiel tried again. “Dean! Whatever you believe you are seeing is not real. You are safe. Open your eyes.”

For a moment there was no change. Then Dean stopped trembling and uncurled his body. Slowly, as if exhausted and in pain, he sat up and leaned against the wall. He stared at Castiel for a long moment, studying him as if he trying to decide if he were real.

“Cas?”

The angel bristled at the familiarity but ignored it for the moment. He had to understand what was happening. “Yes. You have been calling out to me.”

“Oh,” Dean said as if his own prayers were news to him. “Sorry. I uh...I’ll try not to do that again.”

Castiel frowned. “Why are you down here? What has happened to you?”

“It’s nothing,” Dean licked his lips. “It’ll pass. Probably in the next twenty-four to forty-eight hours...tops.”

“What will pass?” Castiel’s grace flashed with impatience.

“Well, funny thing,” Dean cast the angel a lopsided grin. “Seems old Chuck and Amara forgot to stock Bobbyland with a liquor cabinet or even a minibar. Hell, not even so much as a wine cooler.”

“And that explains this…” Castiel spread his hands out toward Dean and the panic room, “...how?”

The hunter leaned back his head and began to chuckle. “You know it really is quite funny when you think about it after what I did to Sam. I mean, talk about being karma’s bitch.”

“Dean!” Castiel barked.

“Withdrawl, Cas,” Dean explained the grin falling from his face. “I’m in withdrawal.”

The angel blinked as his brain suddenly processed the information. Castiel couldn’t remember a time Dean Winchester didn’t drink. Those first few months after the angel had retrieved him from hell, the hunter had rarely ever been without a drink. While over the years he’d learned to moderate, he’d never really ceased.

 _But why was he only showing symptoms now?_ Images and moments replayed in the angel’s mind. Dean’s hands shaking. The way he’d been moving before and after Castiel had injured him. _He had been, I just hadn’t noticed._

Irritation flashed through Castiel. He should have noticed. It was a sign of how badly he was affected by Dean that he had not. He would not be so careless in the future.

Still, this didn’t explain why Dean was in Bobby’s panic room. Had he crawled in there during a delirium? He certainly had seemed to be experiencing one when Castiel had arrived. _It would also explain the prayers._

“Come out of there and I will restore you,” Castiel said crossing his arms over his chest. That would put an end to Dean’s unwelcome entreaties.

Dean widened his eyes then shook his head. “Not to sound ungrateful, but sorry, no can do.”

“I am offering to heal you, Dean. I'm not likely to do so again,” the angel growled.

“No, Cas.” Dean closed his eyes.

“You do not get to say that to me!” Castiel roared.

The hunter winced as if the noise hurt. “Yeah, this time I do.”

Castiel was fuming What was this, an attempt to wrest control back from the angel? “What are you doing, Dean?”

“Dying...painfully.”

The angel tilted his head his emotions suddenly short-circuiting as Dean’s words filtered past them. _What did he mean?_ Dean was choosing to die? Why?

“It’s not an apocalypse, Dean. No need for one of your attempts at martyrdom.”

Dean opened one eye and looked at Castiel. “Ouch.”

“Is that your only response?” Castiel raised an eyebrow.

“Yeah, pretty much,” Dean said closing his eye.

“And you just what do you hope to gain by this self-sacrifice?” Castiel asked.

Dean took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Peace for you. Oblivion for me if I’m lucky.”

Castiel almost stumbled backward. He had not anticipated that response. It did not make sense. There had to be more to Dean Winchester's plan.  “How would I achieve...amity with your death? Or is what you are truly doing trying to escape retribution?”

“Retribution or revenge, Castiel?” Dean asked.

“Whatever I choose,” the angel replied. “Don’t you think I’ve earned the right to decide?”

Dean opened his eyes and looked at Castiel. “I can’t let you-”

“This _is_ about you taking control from me again!” Castiel barked in righteous furious as his suspicions were confirmed. Once again Dean sought to control the angel.

“No! No, it’s not,” Dean barked back. “This about me trying to do one decent thing by you. You want retribution, Cas, and you deserve it,  but not at the cost of what’s left of you. If you go dark side, go Vader on me, that’s one more thing I did to you and I just...can’t. But I still owe you… not just your justice but peace like you had in the Void. So I’m going to stay down here and ride this bad trip out to the bitter end. You can stay down here, watch my body come apart while I puke my guts out and talk to the walls or go chase bees. Doesn’t matter. In the end, when I’m dead, I figure maybe there’s no reason for Bobbyland to exist anymore and ‘poof’ you go free, but if not, then at least you are alone, without me as a fucking walking and talking reminder of all the hell I put you through.”

For a moment Castiel stood silent stunned by Dean’s torrent of words. They all clashed in his mind as if the hunter had been speaking another language. Still, Castiel had understood what was said he just didn’t discern it and somehow that made the angel feel exposed and vulnerable. The angel had vowed he'd never feel like that in front of Dean again and the disillusionment of that promise left him angry and defensive. 

“Justify it however you like, Dean. You are not making some grand gesture on my behalf to save me from another fall, you are saving yourself from my avengement,” Castiel said slamming his hands futilely against the wards. 

“I’m not saving myself from anything,” Dean said tiredly.

“And what if there are no reapers here?” Castiel sneered. “This is a paradise my Father made for you. Perhaps you were never meant to die.”

“Well then, this is gonna suck,” Dean closed his eyes again as his body began to shake.

 


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay...for this chapter and the next you should all have kleenex on stand by. I'm diligently working on the story, but it's taking me longer to write these chapters than I expect. I'm blaming some of this on my muse inspired Rowena. There's just no saying "no" to her! LOL Anyway, I hope to get more done this weekend. 
> 
> I'm trying to remember to check in on my dreamwidth page (https://stillrose.dreamwidth.org/) so folks can check to see if I've been writing. 
> 
> Anyway, thanks for the good wishes on the taxes. That's behind me now (until next year). Woot! 
> 
> Remember, **kudos and comments** help me sleep well at night. ;)
> 
> This chap is unbetead.

The Impala hummed north on US 183 as if it were happy to be rolling along the asphalt. Maybe it was, having been stowed away and neglected for so many months. This time Sam could not leave it behind, he needed to cling to some small fragment of his family and Baby was all he had left.  

Sam didn’t know what the demon had done to turn Dean’s love for the car into revulsion. He only knew Dean had mothballed her and refused to talk about it.

It had hurt Sam in the months since to travel in different cars. It was one more piece of his life ripped away because of the demon. Sam fought back the tears that threatened to blur his vision. If Baby was contented, her driver was not.

He sat stonily in the front seat, his hands gripping the steering wheel while glancing back between the speedometer and the road. His lips were pursed into a thin line as kept recalculating speed versus distance for an estimated arrival time at what was left of Bobby’s.  No matter how he crunched the numbers, the outcome was the same. He still had too far to go, and it was taking too long to get there.

“One of the great mysteries of the universe is why the Winchesters never take an interstate to get anywhere,” Rowena observed with a tilt of her head as she turned from staring out the passenger window to look at Sam. “You lot always travel some road so lacking of anything of interest it’s even too remote for roadkill.”

The muscle at the back of Sam’s jaw twitched as he ground his teeth. How many times did he need to rebuff her attempts at conversation? Just because the Scottish witch had manipulated him in bringing her with him didn't mean he had to chat with her.

He mentally counted to five before answering. “Which means we’re less likely to cross paths with a sheriff or state trooper who might get a little trigger happy to discover their traffic stop is wanted by the FBI and other law enforcement agencies.”

“You know I have a spell-”

“Thanks, but no thanks,” Sam said casting a quick look at the witch. He had seen first hand what could happen to people under one of her spells.

“Suit yerself.” Rowena shrugged before looking out the passenger window again. She began tapping her elegantly manicured fingers along the car door armrest.  After a few moments, she looked back at Sam. “Is this how you always travel? Somehow I thought a road trip with the Winchesters would be more exciting.”

Sam didn’t bother to count to five. “Sorry to disappoint you, Rowena. I’ll be happy to pull over and let you out. I’m sure you can conjure a broomstick and fly off to somewhere more...stimulating.”

“You don’t have to be rude, Samuel,” the witch huffed. “I simply meant you could do more to help pass the time. Maybe talk, you know like civilized people do.”

“I’m not here to entertain you. I didn’t ask you to come along,” Sam said.

“Well, that doesn’t change the fact that I’m here. If you don’t want to talk...” Rowena shifted in her seat until she pressed her back against the door and she faced Sam. She tilted her mouth into a smile and cocked an eyebrow. “...we could do something else.”

Sam turned his head sharply and looked at the witch, his eyes open wide. “Not gonna happen, not now, not-”

“SAMUEL WINCHESTER!” Rowena straightened in her seat as tall as her petite form would allow. “Get yer mind out of the gutter!”

“Wha..?” Sam bunched his eyebrows in confusion his face. She had just propositioned him, hadn’t she?

Rowena snapped back round in her seat. Sniffing loudly in obvious disapproval she looked out the windshield.

 _How am I suddenly the bad guy?_ Sam flushed, focusing back on the road fighting back a creeping sense of guilt even though he had nothing to feel sorry about. He was the one in mourning. Rowena was the one who had invited herself on this trip, meddling in his affairs.

From his peripheral vision, Sam saw the witch dab at the corner of her eye with the back of her hand.  _She’s not crying...is she?_

“Look...Rowena, I’m-”

“It hurts, Sam, to think you would have such a low and crass opinion of me,” Rowena cut him off.

Sam sighed and shook his head. There was no situation where he was going to win this one.  “I didn’t mean...I’m sorry if I offended you. I misunderstood what you were suggesting.”

“Hmmm.” Rowena looked at him from the corner of her eye. “I was going to suggest something completely innocent and fun… like a game.”

“A game?” Sam asked a pricking sensation developing at the back of his neck.

“Well isn’t that what people do on long car drives...if they're not  _talking_.”

“Some people nap,” Sam offered. He could hope, couldn’t he?

Rowena smiled. “I’m not even a wee bit tired.”

“What game did you have in mind?” Sam knew he was going to regret asking.

The witch shifted in her seat again and looked at him expectantly. “Twenty-questions. You do know how to play, right?”

He did. Sam nodded, risking a glance toward her. He answered slowly, “Yes.”

“Good,” Rowena beamed, a smile to make a Cheshire cat jealous, spreading wide across her face. “I’ll go first. Did something happen between Dean and Castiel?”

“Excuse me?” Sam twisted his head sharply to look at Rowena, nearly jerking the steering wheel to the right as well. What was she up too? “That’s  _not_  how you play the game. You’re supposed to ask yes or no questions to figure out what  _object_  I’m thinking of.”

“Well, you can play that way on your turn. On mine, we’ll play this way. Now answer the question.”

Sam took a deep breath and let it out slowly. There was no way he was discussing the events in the bunker with Rowena. “That’s between them.”

“Sooo,” the witch said tapping a fingertip to her lips. “I take that as a ‘yes.’ Next question, did it have ta do with when Dean was a demon?”

“Rowena! How-” Sam snapped, the pain of the memories choking him into silence.

She made an exaggerated eye roll. “Oh please, Samuel. Fergus told me all about his summer bromance with the demon Dean Winchester. Now add to that brew Castiel’s attitude towards your brother while trying to get rid of the Mark of Cain...well it wasn’t hard to figure out that  _something_  had happened.”

Sam gripped the steering wheel tighter. “Doesn’t mean I want to talk about it.”

“Want, ‘no.’ Need, ‘yes,’” the witch singsonged.

“And how do you figure that?” Sam looked at her from the corner of his eye.

She held up a finger. “Ah! Still my turn. I’m the one asking questions.”

Sam’s answering eye roll was not exaggerated but entirely justified.

“You were there too, weren’t you?” Rowena asked.

“I don’t want to play this game,” Sam said reaching for the radio and turning it on. The interior of the car filled with the sounds of Phil Collins “Sledgehammer.”  _Great, it’s tuned in on an eighties station._

Rowena tapped the side of her nose and the song cut out. “Learned that trick from watching Bewitched. Now, quit avoiding the question before I show you what I learned from watching Buffy.”

“Buffy?” Sam narrowed his eyes in confusion.

“Evil Willow,” Rowena prompted. “The second greatest ginger witch.”

Sam shook his head. He’d watched enough Buffy the Vampire Slayer reruns to know what happened when the good witch went bad.  _Though I doubt Rowena would skin me for not answering her question._  He glanced at the witch.

She raised her eyebrows and tilted her head.

 _Then again, this is Rowena._  He took a deep breath and let it out slowly.  “Okay, obviously you are not going to stop this...interrogation until you get some answers. I’m not satisfying your prurient curiosity by giving you the details so here’s the summary which is the only version of the story you are going to get.”

Sam paused a moment trying to figure out just how he was going to summarize what had happened in the bunker. Surprisingly, Rowena sat quietly while he thought.

“Castiel and I,” Sam began slowly, “adminstered the demon cure on Dean, but it wasn’t easy, and our first attempt went horribly wrong. For...for a time we...the demon had us both in the bunker.”

Even telling a condensed version of what happened was harder than Sam had thought it would be. The words didn’t come easily, and his whole body seemed to vibrate with tension.

“The..the Mark...the demon wasn’t immune to the Mark of Cain. It was trying to influence the demon to kill me or worse.” Sam gripped the steering wheel until his knuckles were white. “Cas knew this and he...”

Suddenly Sam vividly remembered the angel on his knees in front of the demon, choking on its cock. The hunter’s stomach twisted and anguish clawed at him. “Castiel kept sacrificing himself for me. He kept…trying to distract the demon until I could come up with a way to escape or trap Dean.”

Sam couldn’t close his eyes; he was driving. He had to watch where he was going. All he seemed to see was Castiel’s bleeding chest as he carved into him.

“I did but...Cas paid a heavy price for that plan. By the time we won...it was too late. The damage was done. Dean and Cas...they...the demon destroyed the bond between them.” Sam rolled his window down halfway and let the cold air wash over him. That’s it. He was done.

Rowena to continued to sit quietly for a few minutes before she reached out and laid a gentle hand on Sam’s arm. “You’ve been trying to fix it ever since, haven’t you?”

A brief, curt nod was Sam’s only answer.

“And what about you, Samuel?” Rowena asked softly.

“Me?” Sam looked at Rowena in confusion.

The witch shook her head. “I don’t need the details to know the demon broke something in you too. So who fixes you?”

“No, I-” Sam started to argue.

“Samuel,” Rowena said firmly interrupting him. “How can you expect to help Dean and Castiel pick up the pieces of their shattered relationship if you are falling apart yerself?”

Sam looked for an excuse, a reason, a deflection or anything to use as a shield of denial against the witches pointed logic. He couldn’t find one. He was defenseless. Tears formed in the corner of his eyes as he realized Rowena was right and with that clarity came and an answer to her question.  _No one._  There wasn’t anybody left to help him.

The road ahead blurred, Sam’s tears were blinding him. He eased his foot off the gas and steered Baby to the side of the road. He braked until she stopped, then put her in park. Hanging his head, he let the sobs he’d didn’t know he’d been fighting free. This time he wasn’t just crying for Dean or Castiel. He was weeping for himself.

Then he felt two slender arms wrap around his shoulders. With surprising strength, they tugged at him until he was embraced in a tight hug with Rowena.

***

“Let him go,” Dean growled at the demon standing behind Castiel who was naked and bent over the back of the Impala.

“You see me holding him down?” The demon asked holding its hands out to the side palms up and flashing Dean a cocky grin. “Cas is ass in the air and spread open wide by choice. He  _wants_  to be here.”

“Bullshit!” Dean snarled trying to get to his feet. His body wouldn’t cooperate. The best he could do was get on his knees. He longed for his gun, but all he had to fight the demon with was his words. “Him or Sam, that’s no fucking option, and you know it.”

“Tsk..tsk. Language, Deano. You kiss the angel with that mouth?” The demon shook its head. Then it snapped its fingers as it laughed, “Oh that’s right, you  _don’t_  because you are too chickenshit.”

 _Cas!_  Dean stared at his friend and watched in horror as the demon ran its hand down the angel’s back before resting it on the curve of his butt.  _This isn’t what I wanted. I...never this._

The demon rolled its eyes. “Oh c’mon on Deano, admit it. You dreamt of this, you and Castiel getting groiny.”

“I never thought of raping him!” Dean yelled.

The demon slapped Castiel’s ass hard enough it rocked the angel’s body forward, and the smack echoed through the garage. “Pay attention, Deano. I told you, Cas  _consented._  He begged me. Didn’t you, Feathers?”

“Fuck me, please. Shove..drill...shake the stick loose from my ass with your cock. I want you to. I’m asking you to,” Castiel answered, “I’m begging you to.”

Dean trembled. He knew the words before Castiel spoke them, they were an echo of his thoughts spoken aloud and each one a prybar wedging the cracks in Dean’s soul wider.

Tears of rolled down Dean’s cheeks unchecked. “He didn’t want you. He didn’t wa-”

“Oh you are right there, Deano,” the demon said working its belt open. “Cas here didn’t want me, he wanted you, but I’m all he got. All he’s ever gonna get, am I right?”

Panic flooded through Dean as he realized what the demon was preparing to do. Once again the hunter tried to get to rise, only to fall flat on his stomach as his legs cramped. He sobbed,  “Don’t Please...don’t.”

The demon laughed as it freed its cock and reached for the can of bacon grease setting on the trunk. “I admit this time was a little rough, but I gotta tell you Deano. I wouldn’t change a thing. Reaming Cas’s sweet virgin hole...well once you get a taste of it, you’ll just want more.”

“You’re a sick fuck,” Dean snapped.  _Cas, I’m sorry._

“Oh don’t get so high and mighty, we both know what goes through your mind in the middle of the night when you’re too sober to sleep,” the demon said as it lubed up its dick.

“They’re called nightmares!” Dean screamed as he began crawling on his stomach toward the demon desperate to stop it.

The demon reached out and spread Castiel’s ass cheeks apart. It moved closer to the angel, pressing its body close and the head of its cock pressing at Cas’s entrance. It leaned over and said, “You might want to take a deep breath. This is gonna sting like a bitch.”

“NO!” Dean screamed. “Don’t! Don’t make me do this! Don-”

The garage filled with Cas’s anguished screams as the demon shoved its way into the angel’s body.

Dean’s heart seized, the world spun, and for a moment he lost himself, the tether to his identity fraying. He was the demon pounding into Castiel; he could feel the angel around him and underneath him. Dean was also a broken human; his body convulsing on the cold cement floor. His mind fractured, and his soul screamed.  _I don’t want this! Oh...god, Cas...I don’t...I ..didn’t...I…lov-_

Blessedly the world fell away from Dean completely. There was only silence and darkness, and for a moment he wondered if he had found his way to oblivion. However, the reprieve didn’t last.

“I am sooo, disappointed in you boy,” a terrifyingly familiar voice sneered as Dean was yanked up off the floor and flung through the air. “I think it’s time to remind you where you belong.”

Dean screamed as his body slammed into something hard and unyielding. Then suddenly his arms were yanked and stretched wide over his head while his legs were stretched out underneath him until his body formed an “X.” His wrists and ankles were restrained with thick leather bindings, holding him in place.

Cool air rushed over his body, and Dean realized he had somehow been stripped bare. Despite being nude, he broke out in a sweat as terror fueled adrenaline flooded his system.

His whole body began to shake and tremble when a figure came into sight.  It was a tall, pale man with thinning blonde hair and a groomed beard and mustache outlining full sickly pink lips. His eyes were round and brown sunken beneath a pronounced forehead giving them a fixed shadow.  He was well dressed in a light blue business shirt tucked into a pair of loose-fitting navy blue slacks which somehow made him unassuming and menacing.

“Alistair,” Dean whispered, his mouth suddenly dry.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alrighty everyone, grab your binky, a cup of tea, and settle in. This is a long chapter that exceeds maximum safe angst levels.
> 
> I'm going to need a long nap now. Please, if you like, leave **kudos and/or comments**
> 
> unbetaed

Castiel had tried to leave Dean behind. If he wanted to martyr himself, again, who was Cas to stop him. _He is no longer my charge. I owe him nothing._

The angel had flexed his wings and whisked himself to the edge of the universe. Given the size of the dimension where he now dwelt, it was not far.  Still, it was away from Bobby’s safe room.

If Dean wanted to find his absolution in Castiel witnessing his suffering, then the Winchester brother’s search would be futile. _I am the one he sinned against. I decide his path to exoneration, not him._

Staring at the far horizon, Castiel watched the sunset. He studied the firmament as it changed from blue to pale pink, then to a ruddy orange before fading into deep a black hued with purple.  Stars spread and cluttered the night sky like shards of broken glass.

For a while, his study of the heavens had been enough to distract Castiel as he had immersed himself in the contemplation of the gloaming. The diversion hadn’t lasted. Slowly he became aware of a pleading sensation that pushed against his consciousness like a trickle of water against stone. It was faint, soft, but steady and slowly eroding through his mind until he recognized what it was, prayer.

 _Cas! CAS!_ The angel heard his name cried in desperate supplication. It angered and surprised him. He’d shut Dean out months ago. He’d learned to ignore any errant benedictions put forth by the hunter’s soul, but here in this place, this was the second time he’d heard Dean’s cry.

Had he changed his mind? Were the pangs and tortures of withdrawal too much? Did he seek to be restored after all?

Castiel narrowed his eyes. Dean had denied him once. Was he so arrogant to believe the angel was his to summon? They were no longer friends. They no longer shared a…

The angel growled, “Dean made his choice.”

Still, he could feel the hunter’s soul entreating him in wordless adjuration. It pricked at Castiel’s grace like the edge of a blade. Hunching his shoulders and tilting his head, he snapped his wings open and flew to the basement.

 _Cas! This isn’t what I wanted. I...never this._ Standing outside the panic room, the angel could hear Dean’s prayers clearly.

“Dean!” Castiel barked at the hunter who was prone on the floor of the basement. If he heard the angel, he showed no sign. Narrowing his eyes, Cas tried again. “DEAN!”

“He didn’t want you. He didn’t...” The hunter’s mumbled into the concrete as tears ran freely down his cheeks and tremors wracked his body. Then suddenly he made an abortive movement as if trying to crawl.

Castiel instinctively moved forward to help, momentarily forgetting his anger and the angel wards. There was a bright flash as the sigils activated forcing Cas to cover his eyes and take a step back.

“Don’t Please...don’t,” Dean sobbed body and soul.

The angel took another step back; the orisons and emotions were unexpected blows. What was happening? Other memories from the bunker arose in Castiel’s mind. _Sam._ Cas had watched helplessly while the younger Winchester had been plagued for hours by unseen tormentors while gripped in the throes of withdrawal. Castiel had sat trapped encircled by burning holy fire while witnessing Sam being tortured by his inner demons locked in the hell created by his subconscious.

Dean mumbled something else while his fingers scrabbled along the concrete floor until they bleed. _Cas, I’m sorry._

Castiel suddenly shook his head. _NO!_ He had said he would not be a signatory to Dean’s suffering. If the hunter was seeking forgiveness through his pain, he would not find it with the angel. Once again, he unfurled his wings readying to flee the basement.

“NO!” Dean screamed. “Don’t! Don’t make me do this! Don-”

The Winchester’s anguished wail filled the basement halting Castiel. There was something in the cry that resonated with the angel as if he too had suffered a similar affliction.

Castiel stepped back to the edge of the wards. What did Dean mean? What was the hunter seeing? Who was forcing him to take unwanted actions and why did they elicit a familiar pain within the angel?

Dean’s body arched up off the floor, gripped in a forcible seizure. His hands curled into talons under his chest as he convulsed, blood trickling out of his mouth.

Had he bitten his lip? A part of Castiel was quickly evaluating Dean’s peril while another part of him was still trying to process the Winchester’s cries. _It can’t be his tongue. There would be more blood._ _It is fortuitous he is on his stomach, less danger of him swallowing the appendage or choking on vomit._

The angel should have been able to say how long the grand mal lasted but he couldn’t. He had lost track of his internal chronometer as he focused instead on Dean, watching the hunter’s muscles relax and then contract again as the electrical storm swept through his brain.

The hunter’s bladder released, soaking his jeans followed by an expulsion of bile as his stomach disgorged. He was insensate to the filth in which he laid and oblivious to everything. _Including me._ The realization shook Castiel nearly dropping him to the floor.

Dean wasn’t seeking absolution or forgiveness from Castiel. This suffering wasn’t about retribution for the angel. Not only didn’t the hunter have the right to claim these things on behalf of the angel, but he also didn’t have the awareness either.

It didn’t matter what Dean had said, what was happening to him now was of consequence. Nor was this about being a martyr, as the angel had accused. _This is about punishment not because I have judged him, but because he has found himself guilty._

As suddenly as the seizure had struck, it abruptly left.

Castiel rushed as close to the barrier of the wards as he could. He stood close to the edge; the magic of the wards felt like a static shock along his grace.  “Dean!”

The hunter didn’t respond at first, then sluggishly like a toy robot using the last of its batteries, he moved. Dean rolled onto his back.

“Dean,” Castiel called again.

There was another pause then the hunter whispered an answer. It was one word and for Castiel felt something for Dean he hadn’t felt in months; fear.

“Alistair,” Dean said as little more than a pained sigh. Then he started to scream.

 

DEAN HUNG LIMP from the rack, cuts crisscrossed his naked body creating an etching in sliced flesh and rivulets of blood. His skin was a canvass, one that had been used and reused many times by a singular artist.

“Beautiful,” Alistair said cupping Dean’s chin with a bloody hand. He lifted it forcing the hunter gaze to meet his. “I half wondered if you’d forgotten me, boy, but then again we both know that’s impossible. Don’t we?”

“Y..you’re dead.” Speaking hurt. Dean’s vocal cords were strained, and his throat was raw from abuse. “Sammy killed you.”

The demon smiled. “Oh, Dean, you think getting rid of me is that easy? I’m inside you boy. Deep inside you.”

Alistair pressed closer to the hunter, their bodies nearly touching. The demon leaned in; its mouth hovered a whisper away from Dean’s. “I buried myself so deep inside you, so many times, I’m a part of you. You can’t kill me.”

Dean tried to shake his head trying to deny both the demon and the memories which were clawing their way out of the darkest corners of his mind. Alistair’s hold was too strong.

“No,” Dean said. “You’re lying.”

Alistair brushed a soft kiss to the corner of the hunter’s then said, “When have I ever lied to you, boy? You’re special. My star pupil. I taught you everything you know...and look what you did-”

“Get off me!” Dean yelled as loud as his throat would allow. His heart beat erratically. No, he couldn’t do this again.

“You broke an angel,” Alistair continued. Still holding Dean’s chin with one hand, the demon began to caress his free hand down the hunter’s shredded chest. “Daddy’s so proud.”

 _No..no..no..no!_ Dean sucked in a breath, fire blood across his sternum where Alistair touched him. The hunter focused on the pain, clinging to it like a shield. _Please…_

“You used every technique, including my favorite,” the demon practically hummed in Dean’s ear. It swept its hand further along Dean’s body, down his chest, and past his chest before pausing to brush its fingers through the thatch of curly hairs just above Dean’s cock. The tiny follicles clung and matted themselves to the demon’s fingers wet with Dean’s blood.

Dean began to tremble, and he closed his eyes. _This isn’t real. Please...Chuck...Cas!_

Alistair released the hunter’s chin and slid his hand around the back of Dean’s neck before gliding it up to rest on the back of his head. The demon snaked down his other hand down and wrapped it around Dean’s shaft. “Do you remember our first time, Dean?”

He couldn’t answer. Air was trapped in his lungs. Memories were colliding with the present reality. All Dean could do was try and shut Alistair out, but he knew it was impossible.

“I recall it with perfect clarity,” the demon crooned as it began to slowly jack Dean. “You’d been on the rack over a year. I’d cut into you, peeled the skin off you, in every way _you_ could imagine. It was exquisite, really. Every day, you refused my offer to pick up the knife.”

The demon stilled for a moment.

Dean sucked in a deep breath. He tried not to notice the feel and the heat of Alistair’s hand but he couldn’t. The demon had played with him so many times, his body knew its master and responded accordingly.

“That hurt, you know,” Alistair said resuming he’s slow and steady strokes against Dean’s growing length. “I was giving you my sole attention and doing some of my best work. I felt unappreciated.”

“I never asked for it,” Dean snapped.

“Oh, but you did,” the demon said before laying a series of nibbling kisses just under Dean’s ear, punctuating each one with a little more of its tale. “One day after you turned down my deal of picking up the knife I offered you a new one. I gave you a chance to feel something other than pain for a short while. All you had to do was just say, ‘yes.’”

Tears began to form in the corner of Dean’s eyes. He couldn’t stop the memories any more than he could prevent the erection he was no sporting.  He’d been in pain for so long, nothing but exposed nerves. He’d been alone and trapped. _Oh Cas, I was desperate to feel anything other than hurt. I just wanted it to stop, even just for a little while._

Dean tried to hang his head in shame, but he couldn’t. Alistair still had a grip on it.

“You do remember,” Alistair said as his thumb teased Dean’s glans. “I’m not sure what was greater, your outrage at realizing what you agreed to as I began my first intimate caress along your cock or your shock that your body responded. Both reactions were sweet.”

The demon leaned forward and licked at the corner of Dean’s eye, lapping away the tear that hadn’t quite fallen yet. “You had so much to learn, my boy. How after so much pain, just a little pleasure...is compounded. It’s overwhelming and undeniable.”

Dean was fully erect, and he could feel the precum forming at the end of his shaft. The demon danced its thumb over the hunter’s cock head, wiping the small drop away and sending waves of unwanted excitement through him.

“DON’T!” Dean begged. He didn’t want this.

“That was the first crack,” Alistair purred, “when you erupted in my hand, screaming out in bliss instead of agony. You hated me, but you hated yourself more. You vowed it would never happen again, but it did. I made the offer of a reprieve off and on for over the next six months, and you rejected it, until one day you...didn’t.”

The hunter’s breaths were coming in pants now. He ached, but it was a different sort of pain then before. Dean was so hard now it hurt.

“After that I tweaked the deal, requiring just a little bit more from you with each chance at a respite, and each time you agreed. Willing to pay the ever steepening price just to stop the pain for a little while until you gave me _everything._ It was heaven.” Alistair began to hum. The song was burned into Dean’s memory. It was the one the demon had sung as it had first br…

“STOP!” Dean yelled.

Alistair laughed but stilled his hand. He brushed his mouth against Dean’s ear. “I’ll make you deal.”

Sweat rolled down Dean’s back and neck. His breathing came in quick little bursts of desperate gasps. He tried to focus. “Wh..what deal?”

“Look over my shoulder,” Alistair whispered.

Dean shifted his gaze, and his body seized. _Cas!_ The angel stood there, his head tilted to the side watching Dean as if he couldn’t understand what was happening to the human. As far as the hunter could tell, the angel was unfettered and unharmed, but this couldn’t be good. He was no match for Alistair. _Cas, run! Get out of here!_

“Focus, boy,” Alistair said pinching the back of Dean’s neck drawing the hunter’s attention. “Now, if you no longer find my touch enjoyable. If you no longer want the reprieve I’m offering; you can let the angel take your place.”

“No!” Dean growled without hesitation. “Don’t you fucking touch him!”

_I’d never give Cas up!_

“Dean, don’t be so selfish. It’s not like you haven’t already done this to him. You wielded pleasure as masterfully as you did pain until he was tearing himself apart. The things he agreed to do-”

“He had no choice!” Dean cried.

“Well then let's give him one now,” Alistair said suddenly turning his head to look at Castiel who was still staring, eyes fixed on the hunter. “What do you say, Castiel? Do you want to take Dean’s place on the rack?”

_CAS! No!_

“Don’t you do it, Castiel! Don’t you…” Dean screamed, his whole being focused on the angel. “I’m not worth it. You hear me? Run! Go!”

Alistair turned back to look at Dean as it resumed masturbating him. This time its strokes weren’t slow and teasing. They were quick and urgent, ratcheting up the need in Dean and coiling up ball of tension at the base of his spine until it was nearly ready to unravel. “So selfish. There’s still so much we...you could teach the angel. Still so much more to break.”

“Never!” Dean vowed his world verging on whiting out.

“Then that just leaves me and you, boy, and when this heavenly break is over I’m going to peel off your skin, one freckle at a time until you are nothing but exposed sinew and muscle. Then I’m going to fuck you, Dean, dry. I’ll tear you open until you bleed out.” Alistair said, his fingers sliding up Dean’s shaft to begin milking its tip “When you wake up, whole and fresh, I’m going to start all over again!”

“Help me! Somebody help me!” Dean howled in horror and ecstasy as his orgasm him hit. The world winked out as he was lost in sensation and terror. He was caught in a maelstrom, and there was no way out.

He lost track of himself and awareness. It was just all sensation that went from forced pleasure to torture of the soul. He couldn’t think, just exist and it seemed endless.

“Geesh, I thought Samantha was the whiner,” a voice suddenly snapped.

The world abruptly lurched into focus twisting Dean’s gut. He curled on himself,   clutching his stomach as he dry heaved.

“Quiet! I’m watching the show,” the voice barked.

There was something familiar about the voice. Dean first concentrated on settling his stomach, quelling his nausea. Then he looked around trying to identify who was with him. His blood turned cold when he recognized himself, his demon self.

“You got here just in time, things are just getting good,” the demon waggled its eyebrows at Dean then turned to look at something across the room.

Tiredly, Dean sat up. He turned his head to see what the demon was watching. His gut twisted again and his breath lodged in the back of his throat. _No!_

Somehow they were in his room in the bunker. The lights were low, and Castiel was laying face down and naked on Dean’s bed.  The equally nude demon version of himself was bent over the angel trailing slow, intimate kisses down its spine, whispering words into it until Castiel groaned and shifted, exposing himself.

 _Cas!_ Dean tried to get to his feet.

An arm locked around his waist keeping him in place. It was the demon.

“Confusing ain’t it?” the demon laughed. “Hallucinations are such a bitch. I’m here holding on to you, but I’m also over there about to eat out our angel until he’s begging for us-.”

“Not us, you!” Dean yelled struggling against the demon’s hold.

“Yeah, that’s right. You’d never give Cas what he wants,” the demon sneered.

Dean drove an elbow into the demon with little effect. “Cas doesn’t want to be raped!”

“This is rape? Look at him, Deano, his ass in the air and his saying, ‘Please.’”

“He had no choice!” _Cas, I’m so sorry._

The demon laughed, “He had the same choice as we did and look how we turned out.”

Something inside of Dean was splintering. He had done this! Alistair was right. Dean had been his star pupil. He’d taken everything he’d learned and-

“But we were so much better. Alistair only broke us so far. Made us hate ourselves enough to pick up the knife, but you and I? We broke an angel, Deano. We took all that heavenly devotion, that love, and twisted into hate. Then we made him our pet. This here, this is the moment it really began. This is where we made him fly and then clipped his wings. We cracked him, right now in this moment, not with brutality but with all that sweet seduction he secretly lon-”

“Shut up! Shut the fuck up!” Dean roared.

The demon paused for a moment. The room was quiet except for Castiel’s soft moans.

“You’re right, Deano,” the demon abruptly said. “Why are we over here arguing about this, when we could be over there enjoying ourselves, having fun with our angel?”

“Wha-” Dean tried to ask before his world suddenly lurched again. When it came back into focus he was no longer being restrained by the demon, nor was he on the floor. He was kneeling on something soft but firm. His hands pulled gently on warm, yielding flesh. _NO!_

“There’s that little hole, all puckered and just waiting for me,” Dean heard himself say. “I’m gonna fill it, Cas. I’m going to stretch it wide and feed it good, but first...I’m gonna make it hungry for me.”

“I don’t under-” Castiel began to say.

Then Dean’s tongue was lapping against the angel’s center, teasing and tasting it. Hungrily he licked and swiped his tongue across the sensitive flesh trying to get more of it. Dean’s senses were overwhelmed with Castiel’s scent and flavor. Over and over, he indulged himself on the angel’s puckered skin until Castiel was rocking into him, offering more and Dean didn’t refuse.

He kept feasting, kissing and suckling until the angel’s body yielded, opening up, welcoming Dean inside. The hunter drove his tongue deep into Castiel reveling in the heat and richer taste. He thrust as deeply as he could, claiming more of the angel.

Castiel cried, “Dean!”

The hunter’s mind and soul split in two. One part of his him was greedily defiling the angel, sensually assaulting and overwhelming him. The other part of Dean was screaming in horror.

 _Don’t! I don’t want this! Please, I don’t want to do this! Cas!_ His tongue continued to spear Castiel while the angel whimpered and ground his ass against Dean trying to impale himself deeper.

The Winchester was going mad. He was trapped, locked in a reality where he was both wantonly seducing his best friend into enjoying his rape, while at the same being overwhelmed with revulsion and self-loathing.  

 _Kill me, Cas!_ Dean prayed even as he guided the wrecked angel over onto his back. The hunter knew what was coming. He tried to stop himself, but he wasn’t in control. Once again Dean was overwhelmed with Castiel’s taste as he took the head of the angel’s weeping cock into his mouth.

Castiel screamed Dean’s name and thrust into his mouth.

Dean wept. He licked at Castiel’s leaking slit. _I’m in hell._

Except he wasn’t. Hell would be better than this.

 

CASTIEL SLOWLY SANK to the floor while he watched and listened to Dean spiral deeper into the throes of his withdrawal which were not only shutting down his body but were also fracturing his mind. Fragments of desperate prayers blasted into the angel’s consciousness. They buffeted him like a butterfly in a hurricane.

They were wild, filled with fear and denial and they were focused on Castiel. The angel stared at Dean. He was trying to make sense of what he was witnessing. At first, he’d thought Dean was relieving the horrors of hell. He’d called out Alistair’s name.

The angel thought he’d known what Dean had suffered. There had been a time, Castiel had watched over the hunter while he slept. The angel had monitored his dreams, trying to keep the nightmares of Perdition's torments at bay.

There must have been things to scarring for nightmares. Castiel had stood outside the panic room and watched as Dean had writhed on the floor, muttering and crying.  At one point he’d screamed, his body twisting and hands flailing as if trying to push someone away, “Get off me!”

Then Castiel had clearly heard Dean’s prayer. _No..no..no..no! Please…_

The angel had watched in confusion as the hunter somehow found the strength to crawl to the far corner. He’d lain on his side, curling himself into a ball and covering his groin with his hands.

 _This isn’t real. Please...Chuck...Cas!_  Dean had prayed again. He’d mumbled something and then another plea from his soul had reached the angel. _Oh Cas, I was desperate to feel anything other than hurt. I just wanted it to stop, even just for a little while._

Dean’s prayer had been filled with so much shame it had robbed Castiel of his breath. It was deeper and more significant than the remorse the hunter had felt for his part in starting the Apocalypse. It had felt more personal. The angel had widened his eyes in confusion and fear.

“DON’T!” Dean had screamed, curling himself tighter in a ball.

Castiel had responded before he’d had a chance to contemplate his actions. “Dean! Look at me. It’s not real.”

For a moment, the angel thought the hunter had heard him. Dean’s eyes had seemed to focus on him. Then his soul’s entreaty had pounded into Castiel so fast and desperate they had nearly sent the angel stumbling. _Cas, run! Get out of here!_

“Wake up, Dean!” Castiel had yelled. He had wanted him awake, if for no other reason than to stop the prayers.

“Don’t you fucking touch him!” Dean’s words had been fierce and angry, but they came out mumbled and hoarse. The hunter’s body was failing him.

Castiel had felt Dean’s prayers again, but they were inarticulate as if even his soul were tired. The angel had stood helpless watching the hunter, not even sure he wanted to assist if he could.

“Don’t you do it, Castiel! Don’t you…”  Dean had suddenly screamed; his words were clearer than before. “I’m not worth it. You hear me? Run! Go!”

The angel had taken a step back then. What did Dean think Castiel was going to do for him? In his delirium, did he believe the angel would save him? At one time that may have been the case, but surely even his delusions must know that was no longer true.

For a moment, anger had flared in the angel as he remembered why he’d no longer play sacrifice for Dean Winchester. Memories of torture and degradation had refueled Castiel’s outrage. He’d stood resolute and determined to no longer be moved by Dean’s supplications and outcries.

Then once again the panic room had filled with the hunter’s anguished cry that was both from soul and body, “Help me! Somebody help me!”

Dean had begun to retch, but there had been anything left in his system to expel. However, that hadn’t stopped his body. It still hadn’t.

This was the brutality of the human body inflicting violence upon itself in recompense for the self-destruction choices the mind had made — _Dean’s_ _choices._ Castiel sat and watched. Maybe he shouldn’t, but he couldn’t leave any more than Dean’s body could cease course to elimination.

The hunter began mumbling again, drawing Castiel’s attention. Dean weakly shoved his arm back, as if trying to elbow someone, then he screamed, “Cas doesn’t want to be raped!”

The angel froze. He suddenly wanted to be as far from the panic room as this pocket dimension would allow, but he couldn’t move. Air he didn’t need was sucked from his lungs, and his limbs seem to have locked against his will.

 _Cas, I’m so sorry._ The prayer was earnest and unmistakable.

“I don’t want your apologies!” Castiel snarled in reply, anger suddenly giving him freedom. “Do you hear me, Dean Winchester?”

The hunter let loose an angry mumble. The words were indecipherable but filled with vehemence.

Then it was as if Dean’s very soul slammed into Castiel as it cried out with every ounce of fury and denial it could muster. It rocked through the angel, and if he hadn’t already been sitting on the floor, it would have knocked him to it.

However, the prayer that followed burned through Castiel like a supernova almost summoning forth his grace. It was raw, full of desperation and it was so familiar in its base plea it pierced its way through the angel’s anger.

_Don’t! I don’t want this! Please, I don’t want to do this! Cas!_

Castiel bent over, his palms pressed into the concrete floor. Blue grace blazed forth from his eyes as tears began to slide down his cheek. From one heartbeat of Dean’s to the next,  the angel processed the hunter’s plea.

The angel understood and knew this agony because it had been his too. Discernment coursed through him so powerful it shook his body, this had been the same desperate cry his inner being had made when the demon had violated him.

Lifting his head, Castiel looked across the panic room and stared at Dean. It had never occurred to the angel-

A new and different anguish filled him. _But it had._ The memory of his first rape surged forward and with it came the abortive prayer he’d almost made. He had been afraid Dean would remember what the demon had done, and it had shaken him.

 _Kill me, Cas!_ Dean’s prayers ripped through Castiel again. _I’m in hell._

“Dean!” Castiel cried in a rough and broken voice as internally he began to castigate himself for his own cruel injudiciousness. How many times had the demon taunted him about what Dean would think? How many times had it said that the hunter wouldn’t want to be cured after what it done? It had _always_ made clear the distinction between it and Dean.

The angel’s own memories answered his silent questions. Castiel had initially survived the demon’s assaults by drawing a distinction between it and Dean. Somewhere along the line, the perception blurred, but the truth never did. _I was just too stupid to see it._

The demon had raped and tortured Castiel. Every touch, blow, and intimate invasion had been made with Dean’s body. Just as it had weaponized the hunter’s thoughts and feelings to break the angel, the demon was destroying Dean with the memories of what it had done even after it was gone.

 _Dean is a victim too._ Castiel shuddered fighting back a sob. Just as the angel was living with the unwanted recollections from the bunker, the hunter was as well. _And now he’s killing himself, paying for sins he didn’t commit._

Castiel took a deep breath and steadied himself. He had to end this, stop Dean. He quickly studied the wards for any signs of weakness. Bobby Singer was too good at what he did. There was no way the angel was making it past the wards. If he was going to help the hunter, Dean would have to come to him.

The angel looked back across the room. Dean was still curled on his side in the corner; his eyes unfocused locked away in his own private horror.

“DEAN!” Castiel screamed. “Listen to me. Wake up!”

There was no sign the hunter had heard him. Panic began to claw at Castiel. What if he couldn’t rouse Dean? What if he could, and the hunter didn’t have the strength or the will to leave the panic room?

“No!” Castiel pounded his fists against the magical barriers causing them to flash. He would not let the demon have this final victory. “Dean!”

A series of tiny shudders rippled through Dean’s body. Were they in response to Castiel or just signs the hunter’s body was further breaking down?

The angel lay down on the floor making his eyes level with Dean. He stared at the beautiful green eyes, peering past them until he could see the hunter’s tortured, but bright soul. Once, he’d felt a connection to Dean as he’d had with no other. There had been a bond between them, first forged when Castiel had gripped him tight and pulled him from Perdition.

The demon had savaged the bond, shredded, it until it had broken. _But had it?_ Could some vestigial remnant still remain? After all, the angel had never been able to block out the hunter’s prayers fully. If there’s was any hope to reach Dean, it was through whatever was left of that connection.

Castiel knew humans didn’t hear prayers. Most couldn’t even hear an angel’s true voice or gaze upon their true form. Even as close as they had been, Dean could never truly see or hear Cas. Still, they had always found a way to bridge any gap, communicate past any barrier.

“Dean,” Castiel cried out softly focusing his whole being on the slim hope there was still something connecting him to the hunter. “Don’t do this. It will not give me peace or retribution. Your suffering, dying, won’t fix what is broken between us. I don’t know what will, but I do know the only way to figure it out is the way we always do...together.”

The hunter laid curled on the floor, eyes staring blankly back at Castiel. Drool falling from the corner of his mouth.

The angel’s vision started to blur. He blinked, forcing the tears from his eyes, clearing them so he could watch Dean. “Please, Dean, I need you.”

Seconds past and Castiel feared the worst.

Dean suddenly let out a long groan. Slowly his body began to uncurl. His gaze remained unfocused, and his movements were lethargic and jerky, but eventually, he rolled onto his stomach. Ever so gradually he began to belly crawl toward Cas.

Castiel watched in rapt attention. He wasn’t sure whether to dare to hope or even to speak. However, with his whole being, he silently cried, _Dean_.

Inch by inch, the hunter pulled himself along the concrete floor by his arms. Each movement was labored and took longer than the previous. Still, it was relentless as if Dean was pouring the last of everything he had into the slow drag across the floor.

Watching Dean writhe leadenly across the concrete was different torture for Castiel. He was gripped by the fear that each bit of distance gained would be the hunter’s last.  

Somehow, he still crawled, narrowing the gap between him and the angel.

“That’s it, Dean, you are nearly there.” Castiel’s fingers curled uselessly against the concrete. The hunter was so close, the angel could reach out and grab him if not for the wards. “Just a little further.”

Castiel sat up and scooted back, making room for Dean to cross the invisible barrier. He watched as the hunter drew himself inexorably closer even as he visibly weakened.

 _Father, please._ Castiel wasn’t even aware he’d made the supplication. Dean just had a few more inches to go and then-

The breath rushed out the angel as the hunter’s head and shoulders pushed past the wards. Castiel reached and grabbed Dean tight by the upper arm, pulling him all the way clear of the sigils.

Tenderly, the angel laid Dean across his lap.

The hunter lay motionless, his empty stare looking past the angel.

An eon past in the brief moment Castiel took to drink in the sight of his friend. It was as if he hadn’t seen him, really seen him, in months. Now that he had his heart twisted and he realized how much he missed Dean.

Calling forth his grace, Castiel gently pressed two fingers to the hunter’s forehead. He eased it forward into Dean, careful not to shock the hunter’s fragile soul, then carefully began to restore his body.

From a human perspective, the restoration was instantaneous. From a celestial view, it was painstakingly slow. Castiel was taking no chances. He checked every cell in Dean’s body, searching for damage or imperfection, anything that should not be there. Earlier when he’d healed Dean’s ribs, the angel had missed the signs the hunter was in withdrawal. Cas would not make the same mistake twice.

When he was satisfied all was well with Dean, he sent another small pulse of grace flowing into the hunter’s body along with a simple command. _Sleep._

Dean’s eyes closed and his body went lax. His breathing became deep and even as he surrendered to the angel’s grace. The hunter was in a deep dreamless sleep.

Castiel stretched his wings and held Dean as if he was precious and fragile. With a quick flutter, he was in the bedroom upstairs where the hunter slept. He lay the hunter on the bed. Calling on his grace once more, the angel passed his hand over Dean cleansing him of the residual filth he’d wallowed in on the floor of the panic room.

Then with perfunctory conscientiousness, he stripped Dean before redressing him in loose-fitting sleep pants and a t-shirt. Afterward, he eased the hunter under the bedcovers. Once again Castiel pressed his finger to the hunter’s forehead.

Dean’s sleep was still deep and dreamless.

The angel moved his hand and stepped back. He watched Dean sleep for a moment. Healing and caring for the hunter had once been commonplace for the angel. It had been almost a devout routine. He’d cherished those moments not just because they were often the most intimate times he’d spent with the hunter, but because Castiel knew Dean rarely trusted or shared such vulnerability with anyone including Sam.

Castiel wasn’t sure if this would be the last chance he would have to this do for Dean or not. There was no telling what the hunter would think or even remember when he woke up. The angel had plenty of reason to believe Dean would be angry. He’d been sure of his course, and the angel had changed it.

Castiel had no regrets. There was still much to discuss between them, even more, to overcome. The angel had no illusions any of it would be easy nor was he confident of how to proceed.

 _Dean’s alive._ That was a start. More than that, it was a victory. Dean dead, sacrificing himself for what had happened in the bunker, would have given the demon the ultimate win. Castiel thought of the version of Dean with solid black eyes. Rage and determination filled him. _You will never triumph over us again._

With a flutter, Castiel disappeared, teleporting himself to the roof. He stared at the stars in silent contemplation. He had a lot think about.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dedicated to Yaoiluvur for planting the idea in my head. This Evanescence song does work, especially with this chapter:
> 
> Bring Me to Life  
> Evanescence  
> How can you see into my eyes like open doors?  
> Leading you down, into my core  
> Where I've become so numb, without a soul  
> My spirit's sleeping somewhere cold  
> Until you find it there, and lead it, back, home
> 
> Wake me up inside  
> Wake me up inside  
> Call my name and save me from the dark  
> Bid my blood to run  
> Before I come undone  
> Save me from the nothing I've become
> 
> Now that I know what I'm without  
> You can't just leave me  
> Breathe into me and make me real  
> Bring me to life
> 
> Wake me up inside  
> Wake me up inside  
> Call my name and save me from the dark  
> Bid my blood to run  
> Before I come undone  
> Save me from the nothing I've become
> 
> Bring me to life  
> Bring me to life
> 
> Frozen inside, without your touch  
> Without your love, darling  
> Only you are my life  
> Among the dead
> 
> I've been sleeping a thousand years it seems  
> Got to open my eyes to everything  
> Don't let me die here  
> Bring, me, to, life
> 
> Wake me up inside  
> Wake me up inside  
> Call my name and save me from the dark  
> Bid my blood to run  
> Before I come undone  
> Save me from the nothing I've become
> 
> Bring me to life  
> Bring me to life  
> Bring me to life

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired in part by My Immortal by Evanescence. When I first started toying with writing this I began to look for a title and a line from this song came to mind. I hadn't listened to it for a long time, and as I did the words made me think of the ups and downs we've seen between Dean and Cas. The more I listened, the more this story evolved. I always knew it would be told in two parts. Bound By The Life Left Behind was the perfect fit for the first part and Captivated By Your Resonating Light became the obvious choice for the second part.
> 
> Lyrics:  
> I'm so tired of being here  
> Suppressed by all my childish fears  
> And if you have to leave  
> I wish that you would just leave  
> 'Cause your presence still lingers here  
> And it won't leave me alone
> 
> These wounds won't seem to heal, this pain is just too real  
> There's just too much that time cannot erase
> 
> When you cried, I'd wipe away all of your tears  
> When you'd scream, I'd fight away all of your fears  
> And I held your hand through all of these years  
> But you still have all of me
> 
> You used to captivate me by your resonating light  
> Now, I'm bound by the life you left behind  
> Your face it haunts my once pleasant dreams  
> Your voice it chased away all the sanity in me
> 
> These wounds won't seem to heal, this pain is just too real  
> There's just too much that time cannot erase
> 
> When you cried, I'd wipe away all of your tears  
> When you'd scream, I'd fight away all of your fears  
> And I held your hand through all of these years  
> But you still have all of me
> 
> I've tried so hard to tell myself that you're gone  
> But though you're still with me, I've been alone all along
> 
> When you cried, I'd wipe away all of your tears  
> When you'd scream, I'd fight away all of your fears  
> And I held your hand through all of these years  
> You still have all of me, me, me


End file.
